


Black

by Tiz



Series: Colour of Roses [3]
Category: Farseer Trilogy - Robin Hobb, Liveship Traders Trilogy - Robin Hobb, Tawny Man Trilogy - Robin Hobb
Genre: Action, Angst, Fantasy, Fix-It, Gen, Implied or Off Stage Rape/Non Con, Intrigue, M/M, Plot, Plot-Driven, Post-Canon, Romance, Third Part of a Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:50:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 58,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiz/pseuds/Tiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Black Rose blooms<br/>And we are no longer whole<br/>I shall weep tears of longing,<br/>I'll watch you and I'll be alone.</p><p>When the Black Rose blooms<br/>As you suffer your own pain<br/>I as well shall torture myself,<br/>I'll wonder if it had been in vain.</p><p>(Fragment from "When the Roses Bloom" by FitzChivalry Farseer)</p><p>[The world of the Realms of the Elderlings belongs to Robin Hobb and to the rightful owners of the rights. No money for me here. :)]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Andromeda Aries](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Andromeda+Aries).



> Third part of Colour of Roses :) The plot thinkens, or so I hope ;)
> 
> Thanks to Sand Dun, my beta! Carlile was too busy to help me with this part, sad enough :(
> 
> And a thousand of thanks to Andromeda-Aires who comments the story. It means a lot to me :* She keeps me going, so everybody thanks her for it! :D

** First Chapter: Coal **

****

_"And so it was the beginning of the World the Scaly Ones and the Ashen Ones and Mankind came to divide Time among themselves. The Scaly One came thundering from the sky, all gold and silver and arrogance. It roared that his name was Lonjiao and so mighty he was that the mountains shook. The Ashen One came walking gently down the earth, as white and as cold as the snow, and it says, with a voice so sweet it seemed pure honey, that her name was Haulu and she was so beautiful that the sun stopped in its journey to look at her. But for Mankind went a young Khams, without might or beauty, and said his name was Meyore, Nobody. So Lonjiao and Haulu laughed between themselves, but Meyore smiled. Hù, his fox-companion, curled her tails over her paws._

_So they began, and both Lonjiao and Haulu wanted the best of the best._

_"I must have the best" said Lonjiao, the Scaly One, "for I am mighty and powerful!"_

_"I must have the best" said Haulu, "for I am wise and beautiful!"_

_Meyore said nothing and scratched Hù's head between her red ears._

_"You may be beautiful and wise, but so am I!" Said Lonjiao, the Scaly One, and roared._

_"You may be mighty and powerful, but so am I!" Said Haulu, the Ashen One, and her inner strength shone in her eyes._

_Meyore said nothing and scratched Hù's head between her red ears._

_And so it went on, and Meyore kept silent and watched and petted Hù's head._

_For days and days the Scaly One and the Ashen One argued, and then, when they were exhausted, Meyore, Nobody of Man, went to Lonjiao, who had gone to rest, and bowed and spoke._

_"Oh Mighty One! You surely are the most powerful of creature, and you shine like the jewel on the earth. You should have something to strong and set and mighty as you are. You could take the past, and its greatness and magnificence would be worthy of you. All of the past your children would have! Think of how strong they would be!"_

_Lonjiao thought on it, and looked at Meyore. But Meyore was dressed in animal fur, and his face was homely and plain. "This creature is puny and weak and stupid" Lonjiao thought. "it is frightened of me and the Ashen One fighting. But this is not a bad idea."_

_Then Lonjiao, the Scaly One, spoke to Meyore._

_"So be it, if that Ashen Creature will allow it, I shall take the Past, for it is surely worth of my kind!" And, for good measure, he roared some more._

_Meyore bowed deep and went, and Hù had a glistening light in her black eyes._

_Then Meyore went to Hualu, who was sitting by a pond and sat on his haunches and waited a while. When Hualu looked at him he lowered his head humbly, though his eyes were not humble at all, and spoke._

_"Oh Beautiful One! You surely are the most lovely of creature, as white and as pale as the snow and the cloud and as ethereal as air. You could take the future, for it is beautiful and aerial as you are. Think of how wise and perfect your kin could be, knowing all of what is going to be!"_

_Hualu, the Ashen One, looked at Meyore. But Meyore was dressed in animal fur, and his face was homely and plain. "This creature is ugly and foolish and stupid" Hualu thought. "it doesn't like me and the Scaly One fighting. But this is not a bad idea."_

_Then Hualu, the Ashen One, spoke to Meyore._

_"So be it, if that Scaly Creature will allow it, I shall take the Future, for it is surely worth of my kind!". And she smiled, and was as splendid as the moon in the sky._

_Meyore bowed deep and went, and Hù had a glistening light in her black eyes._

_The day after, the Scaly One and the Ashen One and Nobody for Mankind met again._

_First spoke Lonjiao, the Scaly One. He spoke thusly:_

_"I shall take the Past, for it leads all to now. My children and their children shall know what had been. This I'll take!" And he roared._

_Meyore said nothing and scratched Hù's head between her red ears._

_Then spoke Haulu, the Ashen One. She spoke thusly:_

_"I shall take the Futures, and all that could be from now. My children and their children shall know what shall be. This I'll take." And she smiled, as beautiful and pale as the very moon._

_Meyore stopped scratching Hu's head between her red ears and raised on his feet. He smiled, pleasantly._

_"And I shall take now, the moment that is happening. My children and their children shan't know the Might of the Past, nor shall they see the Beauty of the Futures, but they shall build the present. This moment, here and now, I take as mine forever!"_

_And Meyore laughed and Hù snickered as only foxes can snicker, and Lonjiao and Haulu knew they had been tricked. For if the first wanted to build in the Present he would have to take Man and make them its own, to build for him, because Lonjiao can't build in a time not his own, and if the second want to bring forth one of her Futures, she must as well take a Man and make its do her biding, for she can't build in a time not her own. Because Lonjiao sees the Past, and Hualu sees the Futures, but neither can affect the present as Man can._

_And so it was._

_And so it is, to this day."_

Kham's Fairy Tale.

 

I think I slept that night, for some hours later I woke when the light hit my eyelids. I did not want to wake, nor to face the day and what it would bring. Yet waking and living I must. My Wit told me Snowcloud was still on my bed. I tried to turn my head toward her.

Pain tumbled me in a wave. I screamed and tensed. The bed moved under me as Snowcloud leaped to her feet, a terrible jostling that tore my muscles from my bones. I dimly heard footsteps approaching and I perceive more than see the familiar Wit and Skill presence of Vien. Snowcloud had gone still as a statue and was desperately questing towards me. I breathed and stood motionless. I clenched my eyes, traitorous tears brimming them. I attempted to calm my companion, and myself.

A cold cloth on my brow was like a shock. I retched with it, then took short panting breaths to get my stomach under control. My breathing was harsh, coming in little gulps. Vien gently wiped my brown, careful never to touch me. After some minutes, long like hours, I opened my eyes and watched him, grimly.

"I am unfit to travel the White Road. The Prophet's Retinue shall have to depart without me."

This wasn't what I had been meaning to say, but the words flowed out of me. Vien frowned. He had seen me already like this, the last time on the White Road back from the Behit's mountain. Reluctantly, he nodded.

"And you will have to go in my stead. No," I stopped him seeing as he was about to speak. "We both know it is necessary, Vien. You, and young prince Chien will go. So will Gao, with Chien."

Vien looked at me, folding his hands into his wide sleeves. He was dressed already for the day ahead, in luxurious aurate silk trimmed with gold and amber beads. He looked off from my point of view, lying low on my bed with him looming over me. In the end, my Huan nodded, a brief, curt nod.

"You are right, my Lord. I shall tell the court that your malady of yestereve had not resolved as we hoped." He regarded me, and I could almost feel his worry.

_The Young One cares for you, brother mine. As I do. You are not unloved._

A pang shoot in my chest and I chocked, trying to banish thoughts for a later time. Vien lowered himself over me, his black eyes sweeping my features. I tried to hide the pain that gnawed my back. I could not nod, so I spoke.

"Very well. As soon as I am able to ride, I shall join you at the first or second White Inn. A man alone with a fast horse can cover that ground easily in two days, while you will need at least three time as much. No." I stopped him, noticing his frown. "I shall go alone, for speed. I expect a full report from you, Vien. I shall Skill you every day, at dusk, for it. Now, go." I gazed at him. I was bed ridden and weak, but I was his King and Lord. He said nothing more, but bowed and went.

I closed my eyes, and tried to relax my tensed muscles and thought longingly at the aconite oil in my chest. I thought that, even had I been able to oil my back, I couldn't do so. Aconite is highly poisonous, and my fingers were still injured and pulsing, and as such I would have to wait for the flesh to ease by itself. Up the moment it would, I would be in pain, my muscles so contracted that every movement was agony. They would need time to unknot. So it had been ever since my change, seventeen years ago. I had learn to live with the pain and the constrict of it. I counted the planks of the canopy bed upon me and thought of Burrich, when I was just a not even grow cub, and how he taught me to live with what you can't change.

Snowcloud whined and her mind quested again towards me. I tried to reassure her, but I was pained and weak, and not in the mood for talking. I could sense her hunger.

_It is just my old pain, sister. It will go away, as it had other times. Go and take some food. One doesn't think well on empty stomach._

She snorted at my words, but acquiesced. I could hear and perceive her going towards the passage where, before, was the door, her pawns clicking on the wooden floor. I wondered dimly how could they repair the damage done by the door crashing on it.

I laid still, listening to the distant sounds of the courts getting ready to depart. I concentrated on it, excluding everything else. Slowly, the pain in my back and neck eased, and I could breath more freely. Then I almost tensed again. Somebody was approaching. I quested toward it, and found a bemused, shimmering and dancing green. Somebody well know to me.

_Chyne? Why are you here?_

"I do not understand why you Skill to me, Father. I am in your quarters"

I couldn't turn my head to glare at her, so I did my best at looking at her sideways. I heard her coming in, her feet light, and set something clicking and rattling on my desk. A tray. Then she appeared in my field of vision and smiled at me. Yet I noticed the shadows under her eyes and the tired fold of her lips. I frowned. She stuck her tongue at me, and the gesture shot a pang on my chest, so deep it took my breath away. Chyne must have noticed it, but blessedly she mistook it for the pain in my back. She scowled back at me, and took an armload of pillow. Before I could speak, she did.

"Grit your teeth, Father. I'll help you sitting straighter. Then you can make all the question you want, but Vien had threatened me to invade my dream with nightmares if I wouldn't make sure you were properly feed. Since I value my sleep, I would suggest you to try and sit up a little." I glared at her. Unruffled, she smiled back. I sighed, hissed and did as she said. Sitting up, though, brought tears to my eyes. I shut them firmly. Chyne had not to see me weeping. She swiftly put the pillows behind my back and I sank to them. I panted, trying to catch my breath, while Chyne put the tray on my knees. I eyed it. White rice, roasted chicken and steamed vegetables. Simple food, but it would serve me well, if I could bring myself to eat it. I was not sure I could. My stomach was knotted, rising my arms hurt and my injured fingers caused pain in holding the spoon. Food seemed too unimportant to bother.

I raised my eyes, to meet the green ones of Chyne. She had crossed her arms. She raised her chin, pointed at the dishes and then looked at me. I sighed.

"Now, tell me why you are here, instead than with my retinue on the White Road." I asked, through clenched teeth. Chyne merely shrugged. "Somebody had to stay with you, counting the recent spat with House Suen. Vien is gone, and Fizek is in Dushanbe. Jek is on the King Hoy, and sailing to Silvarin. Gao is gone as well. You have other loyal people, Father, but I am the only one free to take care of you till you can walk again."

I understood her logic. It did not mean I liked it. I was about to answer her I was no cripple, when the current reality hit me. I bit my lips. "What about those Skilled Ones you wrote me about? Shouldn't you do your duty as a Skillmaster?" I asked. She made a breath, like a puff, and averted her eyes, perhaps ashamed. I did not excused myself. She had her duty, and I had mine. "I have been hasty in my judgment, I fear. Only four of the ten I thought are truly Skilled, and of those two but faintly. I am wary of beginning the training without at least six people. Also, better it would be to find somebody among the noble house. A boy to be King-Brother of Chien. Or a girl, to be his wife." I almost nodded, but checked myself. The number had seemed high to me, for Clerres has no history of Skilling, but I said nothing. I reviewed what she said. It was true, because Chien was not Skilled, and as such no coterie could be crafted for him, and I certainly wanted none for myself.

"Your reasoning is sound. Keep trying to find some among the nobles, then." She scowled at me, again, as I lowered my eyes on the tray on my thighs. I sighed.

"And I'll eat it, but I need not your presence, Chyne." I thought for a second. "Go and distract Snowcloud. I do not want her to worry about me."

Chyne nodded, with a wry smiled. "Very well, Father. When you have finished eating, Skill to me and I'll came." I watched her going towards my threshold and stop here. She put a fine hand on the banister and then turned a little, not completely, at me. "Father..." I looked at her. Her tone was almost small, like when she was a little girl and had fell on her knees. Worry laced through me. "Yes, my girl?" She breathed deeply and squared her shoulders. "Eat everything, or Vien will never forgive me." There was levity in her voice, but I was not so easily fooled. Yet I could not force her to confide in me, if she did not wish so. "I shall. Remember I am here for you, if you wish." I saw her nape nod, and then she disappeared.

I lowered my eyes and pondered on her, while I ate. But I could not know what it was that hailed her. Chyne had all the stubbornness and passion of her Farseer blood, even if by name she is Fallstar, but she has a streak of independence that I never saw in a Farseer save myself. She may very well never tell me what she truly thinks. I quested towards Snowcloud. She was being petted by Chyne, and enjoying her cub immensely. Once more, I envied my bond-companion her simpler life.

I ate. Slowly, for every movement brought pain, but all that had been given to me. Then, the tray still on my knees, relaxed on the pillows, looking out. Seagulls and kestrels and many other exotic birds circled in the blue sky.

I refused to contemplate the words exchanged the day before. But I could not move, and I had slept more than enough. So I focused my mind on House Suen, and Suen Ghuozi. The whole affair had been badly arranged by the standard of Suen Baojia. An enemy he could have been before, and surely was now, but he was also worldly and acute. Why had he attempted such a bold move? I frowned, pondering on the shaman. Suddenly, I cursed out loud. I almost called Vien, but stopped short. I reached out to Chyne, instead. She was still playing with Snowcloud, and I could feel her walls, thick and strong as mine, but better built. She is a Skill-warrior, my girl, as much as I am an assassin, but she is so by her own choice and even if it sometimes jarred me, I respected it.

_Chyne, I need your help._

_Father, what is it? Have you finished eating?_ Her mental tone and Skill-tough were as characteristic as her face and voice.

_Yes, but that is not it. Try to find what happened to Suen Ghuozi. Where had they put him and how they are treating him._

_Understood. I'll tell you soon, Father._

I felt her breaking away from the connection, and only the faint Skill-Link that always unites me to my solos remained. I closed my eyes, and wondered about Ghuozi. I felt shame that I may have forgotten the boy so. Whatever I would have to do to him, there was no need to add to it.

My mind came back to what happened. And to what happened later. I closed my eyes tight against the tear, an act that was becoming far too familiar. I couldn't sob without screaming in pain, and as such I held myself in check with all the strength I could muster. I looked out of the window, without seeing the jewel blue sky nor the path of the birds in it.

I had lost him.

I recall the next day as a time foggy with misery. Chyne Skilled, to tell me Ghuozi was in a dungeon of the Amber Castle. Those were far, far better places than many, for I have been in a number of dungeons, and hadn't like my experience. Never build a dungeon you wouldn't stay yourself in is, I have found, a good advice. Yet I could think of nothing that could be done for the boy.

A servant came and took away the tray. I barely looked at her. I try always to be polite to servant in the Amber Castle, but that time, I feigned sleep.

I think I cried in some moment during the afternoon. I shielded Snowcloud from my pain as much as I could. She went to play with the children of the Castle, as is her wont, and then ran to the field to hunt. I longed to go with her, but Snowcloud is not Nightseye. She had never allowed me to join to her as completely as my precedent companion had. I suddenly ached for Nightseye as I hadn't in years, and for the nights and days on a road up to mountains in the other side of the World, when I had my pack and was whole, and knew not of it.

Yet all must pass, but most of all time. I had to stand at some moment in the day, and I was proud on how I managed to avoid screaming in doing so. The sun was almost setting and the last, golden light of the day illuminated the room, when I had a visitor.

I turned my head at perceiving the woman coming near, expecting a servant with, perhaps, drinks for me, but my eyes stopped on Chyne. She was worrying her lip with her teeth, as she had done since she was a lass when preoccupied upon something. I wondered what it was, to upset her so, for she is not one to be easily distressed. She walked toward the bed and sat at the chair. As before, I noticed her pallor and the shadows under her eyes. I said nothing and waited, patiently. But she didn't speak, neither, just put her feet on the chair, and her chin on her knees. I was annoyed of her intruding upon my pain, and looked out of the widow. I had no strength, I felt, to give her, just then. I had barely enough for myself. But parenthood doesn't leave us the luxury of weakness, just as a King as no right to sulk when his kingdom needs him. So, in the end, I was the first one to break the silence.

"Whenever it is, Chyne, remember this. It is something the man who grew me up told me, once. The fight is not over till you won. No matter what the other person thinks. This is your life, my girl. Live it as you wish."

The effect of my words surprised me. She jumped on her feet and smiled at me her dazzling smile.  "You are right, Father. So I shall! Thank you." She turned and ran out, full of the vigor of youth. I looked at the threshold, bewildered. Then smiled.

Chyne's behavior cheered me, a little. Snowcloud came back to my room, weary and sated with play and food and hunt. I tried to pet her. I was bored to lie on my back, yet couldn't move without pain.

Vien's report that evening spoke of an uneventful journey. Suen Bright Jade was subdued, as expected. The Prophet was detached and haughty, and had not spoken a word to anybody save an elderly monk that came with him, as a part of his retinue. It pained me to hear about him, and I wondered how I could confront him knowing he would prefer my dead. The maelstrom of emotions the thought awaken made me lose my connection with Vien, but I offered him no explanation when we sought it again and he couldn't ask for any.

In the evening my muscles had unknotted enough to allow me to stand and walk with caution, but I reckoned it would be at least another day and night before I could safely ride to the White Inn without fearing a relapse. I went to the window and opened it, smelling the brackish scent of iodine and listening to the far-away cry of the last seagull as they perched for the night. I sat gingerly on the bed and pet Snowcloud, cautiously moving my back and neck.

Chyne came back with another tray, with plates of food for me and Snowcloud on it, and I groaned. I had done nothing, and was not hungry. I asked for a hot bath, and bargained the full consumption of the meal against it, again amused that I, the King of Vietmar, would have to bargain to obtain a hot bath in my own castle.

My daughter rose with the tray and its empty plates. Again, she halted and turned to watch me. She smiled at me and Snowcloud. "You were right, Father. The fight isn't over until you win!" She winked at me. "You may regret to have taught me that, too." I smiled at her. As good as she is to anger me, she is even better to make me smile. My girl. "I probably shall." I countered. She laughed and went, skipping over the stairs like a child.

Snowcloud looked at me with her clear, lambent blue eyes, her head cocked to her side.

 _You should listen to yourself more, brother mine._ I raised an eyebrow and quested a question to her. She ignored it, nipping away a itch with her teeth. I looked at her, mystified. Then it hit me. I was right. The fight would not be over till I had won. I breathed in, and forced myself to consider what the... Prophet, had said. I couldn't change the part about me being a whore, for that I was as true as the fact I am an assassin. But he claimed to have not regained his sight, and that was peculiar. From all I had learnt from my vision, he should have. Why hadn't he, then? I frowned and considered the implication of it. My visions of Vanyel and Flint had taught me that Prophets lost most, if not all, of their sight periodically, not unlike trees lost leaves in winter. I had never shared that vision with the... Prophet. The time had never seemed right. Now I wondered if I ever would. I pushed the thought from my mind. I had to focus on what I did know. I could perceive, if dimly, that he should have regained it already, and probably some years ago, for I too could sometimes feel the turning of the Wheels, as they say in Clerres, and had for a long time, ever since I told a young Fool of Prophets becoming warriors, and dragons hunting as wolves.

I kept thinking about it while I bathed, the scalding hot water doing wonders for my flesh and the clean scent of soap clearing my mind. There had to be a reason for the... Prophet's delay in regaining his ability. I had to find it, and remove it. I was his Dhil'a and he was mine: such a deed was my duty and my reward. And if he saw that he still was indeed the White Prophet, then perhaps some of his animosity towards me would melt. I swallowed around the lump in my throat. The Prophet knew well his duties, and just as well I knew he wouldn't shrink from them, whenever his feeling for me could be.

We were Dhil'a. The first, complete pair that had been on Clerres in many, many centuries. That had to count for something, hadn't it? In the hot bath, I knew a moment of numbing fear, a foreboding, at the thought and my hands gripped the brim of the bathtub, convulsively. Then I breathed out and shivered, despite the warmth of the water and the room.

I could only hope that, with time, the Prophet could learn to accept me as I was now, and, with the hundreds of years that we had ahead of us, maybe count me as a friend again. I set my jaw. I knew not how long it could take, but what else could I fill my days with? He once had spoke to me with love. Probably, when he had told me those things, he had believed they were true. My folly had been in thinking that truth would never change. Now, if I could have back my friend, the companion of my centuries, it would be enough.

I did not dare to dwell on what I had lost forever.

                                                                                                                               

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Starless Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always my deepest thank to Sand Dun, my beta (Carlile is temporarily unable to beta for me, and I am searching for another one to help. If you would like to help me, could you post a comment?^^ Thank you!)
> 
> And, of course, to Andromeda Aires to whom this story is dedicated!

** Chapter Two: Starless Night **

 

_The Skill has never been a know magic into the realm of Clerres. Arguably, the only magician of the White Land, up to recent time, had been the White Prophet himself. Yet magic flourished just at the rim of Clerres. Induyans' shamans create powerful charms and summon demons to their bidding, whilst the Khams' people Siòng is the strongest form of Wit I have ever witness, allowing one to be bound to beast of earth, sea and sky as well as to the trees that grow on the island of Wa'tan._

_Still, the people of Clerres were not ignorant of those magics. Scrolls talk of them, and scholars all over the land are mildly aware of their existence. In this light, the lack of action seems as baffling as the dearth of curiosity. Yet if you believe you have all, why should you seek? When season comes after season, and all goes as it had always gone, why should you upset the equilibrium, or even think of its existence? Yes, the city-states of Atremandia battled each other, and together they fought the nomads of Kizah, but that, too, was comfortable and known, not unlike the saying of the Six Duchies about Calched. So Clerres existed and took strength from being the land of the White Prophets, who came to save the World from itself. I have always found a testament of irony that the land whence so many who have changed the World came from had lost ability to change itself._

_And so when Liantharin broke down, and the border towards the Iduyan savages and their magic did not hold anymore, Clerres stood still as a yearling fawn shocked by the hunters' cries. Panicked, the rulers of Clerres went to the White Prophet to ask for his Wisdom, as they always had._

_Yet the words of the Prophet weren't enough to curb the seed of chaos. Liantharin broke down, and between the warring factions, the Iduyans found fertile soil to descended upon, and then arrived to Uzkabat and Vietmar like a flock of vulture on a dead donkey. They faced people who were not warriors; had not been warriors for uncounted generations. The White Nations did not think like warriors. But the Iduyans had no fields to plant, no children to defend, no stock to tend to distract them from their raiding. But we strove to live our day-to-day lives at the same time we tried to protect ourselves from their destruction. For them, their ravages were their day-to-day lives. That singleness of purpose was all they needed to destroy Clerres._

_It was not armies, but geography that put the first stop on their consecutive raiding. The Behit Mountains and the M'kang Deserts were too harsh climates for their horses to pass, and too alien places for their shamans to root their demons in._

_I came in this situation when the Iduyans had manage to reach Vietmar's border. My role in the war was less to act, and more to show that acting was possible. When I proved that the demons of water and fire and air could be fought and won, it inflamed in the heart of men and women the will to fight for themselves. So they did, and so they won. Not without pain, and hardship, and loss, but they triumphed in Vietmar first, and in Uzkabat later and took pride in that._

_And so, from the seed of Chaos, fructified Change._

 

 

The second day of my forced inactivity passed much like the first. I could move and walk without too much pain, but I knew I needed more rest before being able to ride for long. In some way, that day was worse than the one before. Then, agony had kept me immobile. Now I could move, if barely, but I had nothing to move for. I felt both nervous and restless. I could think of nothing constructive to do, and no way to pass the time. Frustration and worry chafed me and I felt encased in a gray listlessness. In the end, I battled Chyne to have my paperwork. She managed to wrangle out of me the promise to eat two full meals. I was not hungry, but I kept my word. I took two other hot baths. I read reports on Fisil and on the White Roads and the Khams. Snowcloud spent her time between my bed and the Castle that was her hunting ground, though she seldom hunted. I could perceive something, not a though, but a barrier between us. She was hiding something from me. Yet she didn't speak of it, and I daren't ask.

The normal sounds of the Amber Castle, the chafing and hammering and shouting of the workmen, as well as the scent of resin, glue and dust, had begun in earnest. I sighed at it from my bed and lowered an account by Fizek on the traffic between Dushanbe and Dhato, the more eastern of Vietmar's cities, lying on the board of the Desert. The Great Sail Fleet had increased in size since In had became ruler of Vietmar, and now it had more than one voyage every few years, and it docked on other harbors aside the one of Jamailia. I had resisted up until now the idea of ordering them to set their sails to Buckkeep. It was too far for ships already weakened by a long permanence at sea and refitting at a closer harbor, like Jamilia's itself, would involved taxes and loss of profits. Yet Fizek had recently made some quite good points for it, indicating than perhaps with a middle break in the Pearls Island, it could be managed. Jek supported him. I privately thought they desired to create some sort of connection with the Six Duchies, and this made me doubtful to accept the plan. Reckoning had never been one of my abilities, and I had been dismayed at the knowledge that a King need to know that skill. Never, not as FitzChivalry not as Tom Badgerlock had I to know much about sums and the daily drudgery of accounting.

Yet all, even reckoning, was better than idleness. For if I allowed my mind to divert from the matter of Vietmar for even a moment, my ears would ring with the Prophet's words. Regal dungeons were better than recalling the Prophet's words.

So the day dragged itself to an end. I watched the sun set on my window, repeating a Kham's exercise and trying to focus my Wit on every single bird I could see in the sky, following it while it went beyond my sight, and then again.

I had so concentrated on the birds outside, that I failed to perceive the man approaching. It was my ears, not my Wit, that told me of him. A creaking of the wooden pavement made me turn my head, my sense extending, expecting to find the well know perception of Chyne, or of a servant of the Castle.

I froze at noticing Suen Baojia instead.

The flare of my magics alerted Snowcloud. I could sense her running to me, but she was in the kitchen, eating a good meal of roasted meat. She was too far to come in time. The pain in my back and neck reappeared as I tensed, preparing to fight. My mind raced. How had he made up to my room? I cursed my foolishness in not ordering a guard, now that Vien was on the road and I was incapacitated.

Time passed. As Baojia didn't move, I regarded him. His clothing was in the yellow and amber of Vietmar, without any shade of Liantharin's Green. It was clean and pristine, as were his hair. But his eyes looked haunted and his face was devoid of colour. His black gaze met mine unflinching. His hands were in his sleeves, a pose that reminded me so much of Vien to take my breath away, but I could see they had to be clenched from the tightness of his shoulders.

I watched, and saw him. He was not a young man. His son was guilty of a crime for which death was the only penalty, the very son for whom he had sacrificed so much. He had left Liantharin, by its people considered the highest country of Clerres and, as such, of the World. For him he had gone to a land that he surely thought little more than barbaric and fought to improve his family standing. I knew what he was about to ask me, even before he spoke.

Snowcloud must have sensed my thoughts, for she slithered past Baojia and went to my knees, instead of challenging him.

_Pack against pack, brother mine. But we won._

I petted her head. She had no animosity toward House Suen. Pack had fought pack, and it had been drew back. That, for her, was enough. I watched Suen Baojia and wondered if it was so for me. The movement of Snowcloud around his cassock tore Suen Baojia from his apathy. He bowed in a jerking movement, so deep his forehead almost touched his knees. I felt pity for him.

"My King, I come..."

"To see your boy." I completed, quietly. Still bowed, Baojia's form shook. I closed my eyes. I was tired. So very tired. For a moment, I felt a strong desire to order the boy to death, for I had no doubt that part of what the Prophet had said to me was due to my action toward Suen Ghuozi. In a way, it was the boy's fault. Yet what else could I do? But as I watched the man, I felt the anger die away leaving a boneless tiredness in its place. I inhaled slowly and opened my eyes. Chade had once told me I should trust my own judgment. So I would.

"Suen Ghuozi has to die." I said, flatly. The man body did not move, and its stillness bespoke more than any movement could. "But your son may yet live in the flesh of your House."

He raised so fast I feared he would do himself injury and gaped at me, his mount ajar. I looked back at him. I sat on my bed, and thought furiously while Snowcloud scratched herself.

_Not wise, brother mine. That cub is only trouble, he is not able to follow a track if you would paint it to him._

_Perhaps it is not wise, sister, but since when is wisdom a claim of my kind?_

I felt her mental snort at that.

I smiled wolfishly at her. Then I turned to Suen Baojia. He was sitting on the chair now, woodenly as people of Clerres are wont to when they try to use them. He had not speak, shock still plain on his features. I sighed. I had thought him faster at thinking.

"I declare that Suen Ghuozi will have to be executed at dawn, as not to leave such an unfinished business to sully the new White Road. In respect for your House, I shall order for him to be suffocated." I paused. That would also show I harbored no belief that House Suen shared Ghuozi's seditious ideas. "The body will be given to your house to give it proper funerals. I shall also give you grant to transport it in the mainland to be buried in Liantharin, if you so wish."

I regarded Baojia. He was looking at me like he didn't believe what I had been saying. Then he nodded slowly and stood up. "I thank you, my Lord, for your magnanimity." His voice was strained. Instead of bowing, he know-towed, briefly putting his forehead on my feet, an act in Liantharin only done for the Shining Empress. This action had always deeply bothered me, and I averted my eyes. Still, the gesture told me he had understood my plan. I looked back only when my Wit alerted me of his absence. Snowcloud looked at me with her blue eyes.

_They are my pack, sister. I won over them. Killing now would only make the pack weaker._

_Would they be pack, Changer, the he-cub would have learnt his lesson. I do not think it is so. I think he will challenge you again._

I sighed. _Perhaps._

I Skilled at Chyne a command to come. We had a fraud execution to plan.

I glanced at the sky. The sun was setting and the blue was tinted in red and yellow. I awaited the communication from Vien debating whenever to tell him of my plan. I decided against it. There was nothing he could do. I scratched Snowcloud under her throat, and went to mix poisons to make a living body seem dead. Or, at least, dead enough to fool an untrained eye. I wrapped my injured fingers with care. I did not cherish the thought of poisons in an open wound. I looked at them as I did so. The nails would need weeks to grow again, and the fingers would be somewhat tender for some months, but I doubted it would give me trouble in the time being. Still, I was even more careful than usual in dealing with my poisons.

_My Lord, I bring tidings._

Vien's Skill brought me out of my mixing thurda roots and wideleaf. I paused and lowered the glass. I could not afford slobbery.

_I am listening._

_The journey is uneventful so far. But, my liege... I am concerned about little Prince Chien._

I bit my lips and scowled at the wall. Snowcloud, sprawled at my feet, sat up and looked at me.

_What is happening to my son?_

_He is... capricious. Above what he is usually in Dushanbe. He is constantly whining or wailing. I fear he misses his mother. He... cries for her. And for you._

I sighed. Chundra loved the boy, but she thought herself queen above mother. She had decided that it would be better if the boy was sent to me, and so she had. To her credit, she didn't know I would have to let the boy go to the first part of the journey without me. The child was only two. I had been four years older when I had been separated from my own mother.

_I shall come as fast as possible, Vien. Bear the little Prince till then._

My Huan sent me a sparkle of acceptance. He reported me no more than usual business, and then closed our connection. I looked at the small workbench I had in a corner of my study. He had not spoken of the Prophet. Vien is sometime too perceptive. I bit my lips and breathed out, then fixed my mind on the exact dose of roots and leaves.

In the end, it was easier than I had supposed it would be. I ordered a servant to send words of Ghuozi's punishment to the executioner. I reflected if to give Chyne the powder to put in its drink and food. I would have preferred somebody else, for Chyne has very little subtlety, but I could not do it myself, and Vien and Gao were too far away.

When Chyne came in my room, I had just finished to measure the powder, and had put it in a small paper pouch. She looked at me with a cocked eyebrow and went to pet Snowcloud without speaking. Snowcloud barked and wagged her tail.

"Chyne, I have a task for you. You must ensure that this powder come to Suen Ghuozi's drinks and fares." I looked at her.

"Why that, Father? He is already going to- Ah. I see. You think it is a wise idea?"

There is nothing like being questioned about your wisdom by your eighteen years old daughter.

"No. But it is mine, and so it shall be done. And prepare, tomorrow morning we will depart for the White Road. We have two days to reach the second White Inn, no more." She nodded. "If we cut through the Jungle, we may be here before them, Father. They travel slowly."

This view had not come to me. I decided to reflect on it.

Chyne took the small paper wrap and grinned at me.

"I shall order another hot bath for you, Father. And food."

I shacked my head, and was about to speak but she didn't let me. She scratched Snowcloud, smiled at me brightly above her shoulder and, with nary a "Goodbye, Father." she was gone, her lively Wit-sense fading down the stairs. Snowcloud's tail thumped on the ground in time with her wagging. I flexed cautiously my back and neck.

_At least she seems better, Sister. I worried._

_You worry too much, brother mine._

_This may be true. Can you follow us to the Road?_

Snowcloud looked up at me and I could feel the affront in her mind.

_Who do you think I am, a cub or an elder? I shall make my own trail, and mark my words: I shall come to the den first of all._

I regarded her with open skepticism. She barked her outrage.

_Faithless brother! You will see. Now, I need rest and a bath. As do you._

_I am rested enough and..._

_Rest. Bath._

_Snowcloud..._

_Rest. Bath. Rest. Bath. I can go on, you know._

I did. She has a quality I wouldn't know how to name. Stubborn doesn't start to cover it.

_This is why we are so well matched. Rest. Bath. Rest. Bath._

I groaned and complied. If there is something my age had taught me, is that when two female form a coalition against a male, the man hasn't got a chance. This seems to be true for humans and beasts alike.

So I took another hot bath as soon as the servants had set it, and forced myself to swallow some light soup. I dreaded the night. I dreaded even more the dawn. There was nothing I could do for the second, but I took a mug of water and heated it to the fire, and added sleeping powder to it. Snowcloud said nothing but I could feel her disagreement with my action. I drank it all. It had been since Sendàr's death that I had not needed to use such a strong dose. But the drug promised a sound, dreamless sleep. I sank into the mattress.

In the end, it was easier than I expected. When I woke, the pain was gone. Chyne assured me by Skill that Ghuozi had drank the rice wine at his disposal. I dressed and went to the execution. I did not look at the white face of the boy. I knew his wobbled steps to be derived from the sedative acting on his body. The black rags he wore, barely a cloth around his loin, empathized his criminal status and showed a figure barely entered into adulthood. His hands were tied back. By tradition, such acts in Vietmar are private and not for the first time I thanked the custom. Chang, the executioner, a old man with wiry arms and few words, put the cord swiftly around the boy neck. He couldn't even try to scratch it away from his flesh. He kicked and trashed wildly for a moment. Then his body went lax. Chang untied the rope as fast as he had tied it and bowed at me. I forced myself to walk. All of this for a few words. Snowcloud wasn't here to led me support, as she didn't agree with my decision. I kneeled and checked for sign of life. My superficial exam found none, but when I pinched his nail, it went from white to normal immediately. I breathed. I turned my head towards the undertakers, always present in such case.

"Suen Ghuozi had what he deserved to have doubted the Prophet. Bring the body to House Suen."

Silent and black, they took the boy's body and put it in a simple, curtainless palanquin. The two carrier would make the longest possible way to reach House Suen, so that all would see it.

I did not say more, and fled to the stable, without looking left or right and ignoring everybody on my path. Once here, Snowcloud's presence and the minds of the horses filled and calmed me. I breathed easier. Snowcloud came to me and pressed her head on my thigh. I scratched her between her ears.

Chyne was there as well, with the reins of both my Toiden and her Chanang in her hand. The horses were ready for the travel. Our baggage had preceded us and as such only a couple of change of clothes were necessary. My daughter looked at me, and thought better than speaking. I said nothing, and flung myself on the saddle. We trotted out the stable and into the wide path that led to the White Road. The day was glittering and beautiful, the distant call of the city and the smell of warm earth and the ever-present scent of the ocean filled my sense. Chyne let me choose the road. I took the one that skirted out of Fisil, close to the cultivated field. We moved through a broad thoroughfare, between rice fields, protected by our Iduyan's charms against the stinging insects. Majestic palms and trees had been planted on the embankment between fields, to provide shade and to strengthen them against the erosion of water. I drew a deep breath and let my Wit unfold into a general sensing of the day around me. My awareness of both Chanang and Toiden sharpened, as did their acknowledgment of me. Toiden danced a little on his feet, sharing his joy for the day and the ride. I smiled at him and sent back a warmth approval. I sensed Chyne, not as another rider beside me, but as a large and healthy creature. Birds in the trees around were bright startles of life amongst the leaves. From the largest of the trees we passed, I sensed a deep green flow of being, a welling of existence that was unlike an animal’s awareness and yet was life all the same. All the world shimmered with life, and I was a part of that network. Snowcloud, my companion, rippled and shined, close to me and as know as my own flesh, and yet just as much a mystery. She sent me a thought of parting and a playful challenge, and left for her own paths. Soon, she was just a streak of white between the fields.

So that first travel on the White Road between Fisil and Silvarin started. Little I knew how much would happen before its end.


	3. Ink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter sees the coming of a new beta! Thanks to Ipoeia for her help, and to Sand Dun for his continuing encouragment.
> 
> Of course, I wouldn't be able to go on without Andromeda Aires comments and good points. Thank you. :*

** Chapter Three: Ink **

 

_The relationship between the White Roads and the lands they pass thru can be compared to the one between the White Prophet himself and the various rulers of Clerres. The Roads are sacred, as is the person of the White Prophet and they belong to him. Yet, they pass through the countries themselves, with their wide range of inner beliefs and customs and rulers. The kings, queens, and lords of Clerres have to obey the Laws of the Roads and bow to the White Wisdom. Still, they have not to do it cheerfully or as thoroughly as some Prophets would like, and there had always been subtle ways to subvert the Prophet's wishes. The very net of ceremonials and customs that surround the Prophet can be seen as a very successful way to ensnare him, to make his presence less effective and to find methods to humbly counterpoint his words, by suggesting they haven't been phrased with the correct rituals. The letter of the law is often quite different from the spirit of it._

_It can't be surprising that the more praised Prophets in Clerres are the White Ones: the Prophets that have never left Clerres and dedicated their lives to contemplation and writing of their visions, possibly with very little travels inside Clerres as well. The very expression "Whites" as is meant in Clerres is relatively recent: the most ancient scrolls don't mention it at all. When one that now would be defined as "White" appeared in these earliest writings, the given title was "Prophet" and mentioned as white in their childhood, if at all, only as a mean to identify them. But the ones who didn't make much difficulties for the rulers and the people of Clerres, either by living quiet lives in Clerres or by departing and never returning, stayed white, or were at least remembered as such. Since their juvenile colour was the easiest way to set them apart and as the lives of the folks of Clerres seemed easier and better under those white Prophets, the term of "White Prophet" and eventually "White" came to substituted the more ancient and simple "Prophet"._

_So the time when most Prophets had been coulored in all the shades of the rainbow, and in which changes flow through the land with them and their Catalysts, faded from the common memory._

 

We rode hard that first day stopping only at midday to water the horses and eat a light repast. Toiden and Chanang were Road horses, able to trot for hours without tiring, and to take a full nourishment from the scant herbs of the steppes. Before the sun was at midday, we had left behind the last cultivated field, and had entered the Jungle.

The inner side of Waitan is a mountain range, mellow if compared to the harsh slopes of Behit. The lowest height is home to the wildest jungle, while in the upper side the vegetation degrades, and in the peaks there is even snow in some time of the year. Different animals and plants flourish. So does the Kham. The mountains are intersected by many creeks and streams and by small or medium valleys. The rivulets all join in the short Wa'tan River quite close to Fisil, and their number changes from wet season to dry season.

We had to count this all in planning the White Road. Tradition wants them as straight as possible, and in the map so the Road between Fisil and Silvarin is drawn, but in truth it makes many small detours and curves, molding around the landscape.

By silent accord, we left the Road before the first White Inn, taking the jungle path. The jungle is full of them, shaped by the forest's animals. I expanded my Wit around me, but I felt no ill interest towards us by any meat eaters. Some were abroad, but most would not come out until after the night had fallen. I gave Toiden reins and lowered myself on his neck, to avoid the low branches and to let him choose his footing.

The jungle at that altitude is wet and dry at once. Water trickled down on us from the leaves yet the ground under Toiden's hooves was arid. All the water was absorbed. I kept my Wit alert for predators, or so I promised myself.

_FATHER!_

I jumped in the saddle and startled Toiden. He pranced. I almost hit my head on a high branch while trying to regain control of my horse. When I succeed I turned my head sharply to Chyne.

"Have you noticed, Father, that it is almost night?"

I blinked and looked around. I couldn't see the sky above, only the leafy canopy of the middle and high jungle, and the grayness of twilight was closing upon us. We had but few minutes to find shelter, for in the Jungle night and day are separated by little time.

I turned accusingly toward Chyne, who regarded me levelly.

"Before you ask, yes, I tried to warn you. Several times. You didn't even hear me." I flinched. Had I been so engrossed in the Wit as to forget to check for time?

_Good thing our cub is with you, brother mine. You don't have the sense to search for a den in the night._

Snowcloud's words came from far away.

_I was looking for predators, sister._

_So you were. Now, look for a shelter._

I sighed and looked around. We were in deep jungle, where directions and sounds seem as jumbled together as the trees, but the setting wasn't unknown to me. I have explored the surroundings of the White Road, with the Khams, and from them I had learnt how to avoid getting lost. Getting lost often means certain death.

I pointed to Chyne a passage between two trees, and dismounted. She nodded and did the same. I shook my head. Her Skill-word still ringed between my ears. We walked for some seconds in silence, amidst the rising darkness. I could almost perceive Chyne's worry as the sounds of the night jungle started to break through. I stopped.

"We shall camp here." She squinted to watch the place. It was a clearing, close to a cliff. The ancient avalanche had left the ground too rocky for big trees to grow, and as such it was a safe place, provided one had fire.

In silence, we set to our business in making the camp. I tended the horses, while Chyne made fire, more to deter wild animals than for warmth, and put on water for tea over it, and rice into bamboo tubes over the hot embers.

With the light of the fire, I checked the legs of the horses for leeches. There weren't more than the usual number, and I elected to leave them there. Leeches' wound are wont to bleed for long, and I preferred to avoid giving meat-eaters our scent. I let them graze and went back to the small camp.

Chyne was looking at the flame, her knees up. She smiled at me and poked at the bamboo tubes. The evening passed pleasantly, as is so rare between me and Chyne. We drank, and she kept insisting until I ate a whole bamboo tube of rice and we remembered the old time of her childhood. She laughed. I couldn't help: in spite of all that was heavy in my heart, I smiled.

 I looked at her. She has the sparkling green eyes and brown hair of her father. From the other side of the fire, she looked breathtakingly like my old mentor, the man who used to be my conscience. Yet something in the shape of her eyes and mouth bespoke of her unknown mother. I have often wondered if Chyne misses her. She has never asked.

Vien Skilled to me, reporting that we had, as I had thought, almost left them behind already. Retinues travel slowly, and the step path up the mountain we had taken would cut a whole, wide curve off the road. They were in a White Inn, the first between Fisil and Silvarin. My Huan thought they would come to the second one in two days. He mentioned Chien was still finicky and petulant. He said no word on the White Prophet.

In the end I took the first watch. I quested toward Snowcloud. She was asleep, full and content. I smiled. I stared at the forest, and tried to follow the single strands and wisps of life. Insects and small animals whiskered in and out of my range of feeling. A deer was up in the slope above me, asleep. There was no big predator abroad. Chyne took the second watch, and she regarded me levelly while I brewed some sleeping draught, but offered no comment.

The second day passed much like the first. My daughter was strangely silent, as if lost in her own thoughts, and I offered few words myself, lost as I was in the vibrant, lively beauty of the jungle life. I assured myself I was screening the area for danger. We stopped briefly at midday, to rest and eat, and check for leeches. Chyne's lack of disgust towards various kinds of vermin had always surprise me. She shows less of it than Vien or Fizek.

In the late afternoon of the second day we set down from the cliff we had climbed to cut through the Jungle. I watched grimly the White Road, slithering between the canopy of the trees. The White Inn, the wall whitewashed and the stables empty, stood lonely in the middle of it. They had not yet come, and would not until midday, if what Vien had Skilled to me was right. My mouth was parched and my heart beat wildly in my chest. I passed my hand over my face.

"One day, Father, you will tell me what it was between you and the Prophet." I turned to look at Chyne who watched me back. She cocked her head to the side and smirked.

"When we met, at the dock, he looked at me like I reminded him of somebody. And when I told him my name was Chyne Fallstar, he startled. A little, but he did." She paused. My heart seized up at the questions to come. She didn't disappoint me. "He knew my father. Do I... look much like him?"

Her words echoed the feeling of the night before too well for comfort. I breathed out. "Yes. You look much like your father, Chyne. Chade and... the Prophet, knew each other. They weren't friends, but I think each well respected the other."

She nodded slowly and spurred Chanang down the path. I followed her.

In the White Inn courtyard, a familiar white form awaited. Snowcloud raised her head indolently and yawned at me.

_Took your time, brother mine._

I regarded her, astonished. She barked and wagged her tail, stretching with laborious care, her pleasure in surprising me clear and evident in our bond.

_How have you..._

_A female is entitled to her secrets, brother mine._ There was a definite hint of coquettishness in her tone. I was dumbfounded. Chyne dismounted and went straight to her, petting her head and flanks. Snowcloud's tail wagged more. I shook my head and followed suit. We left our mounts to immaculate stable hands, already jittery for the Prophet's visit.

I was as welcome as the royalty I am. I have often found the privilege it gives me chafing and restrictive, but that day I appreciated it. My back and neck were still sore, and the chance for a hot bath was too good to refuse or be fussy about. Two days of riding had left me tired, but I judged best to take the potion in any case. Snowcloud curled herself in the room I had been given, and I watched the stars outside the window till a drugged sleep claimed me.

I can't recall much of the day after. I rose late, groggy for too much sleeping draught, and bathed and brushed Snowcloud for her pleasure and to avoid being idle. Then I bathed and dressed myself without noticing it. I didn't see Chyne. I fretted about how I could put my plan in action. Discovering the reason the Prophet had not yet regained his ability was not as easy as deciding to do it. I put the thought out of my mind; nothing I could do for now.

I longed to ask for some kind of liquor, but alcohol is forbidden in the White Inns. I paced the room, Snowcloud's blue eyes following me back and forth. I knew what was going to happen, but when my Wit picked the faint presence of the people on the road, I stopped dead in my track, my mouth parched and my heart beating wildly. My palms sweated and my head swam. Blindly, I reached for Snowcloud, and her presence gave me a measure of calm. I breathed and licked my lips to moisturize them. Then I took a deep breath. My ears could pick up now the sounds of horses and people, I looked wildly at the door. I had to go. Yet my feet were rooted to the ground, and I couldn't move. Snowcloud rose and came closer to me, her head on my thigh and whined softly. I passed my fingers over her fur and squared my shoulder. A step after the other, I went down. The World seemed to spin around me.

Several people were riding in the front. I heard Snowcloud's growling and dimly wondered why. I could perceive Vien, well known to me, almost in the place where I should have been, at the right of the Prophet. But my eyes were drawn to the Prophet himself. He was dressed in a white tunic of the stile often used in Vietmar, with amber beads and golden embroidery, a headdress helped keeping his sleek auburn hair back from his face. He rode well, tall and proud over his chestnut coloured mount, eschewing the palanquins so dear to the people of Clerres. He looked royal and of beyond this World, his tuning with his horse and all that was around him as easy as breathing. Yet his expression startled me. There was a pitched quality in his skin, a subtle grayness under his rich colouring. I avoided his eyes, looking at the ground in front of me.

_Changer, breathe._

Snowcloud's words made me realize I was shaking. With an effort I managed to still my muscles.

The Prophet dismounted and walked towards me. I should have raised my eyes, but I discovered I couldn't. I felt a twinge of shame that I couldn't even face one who once called me friend, yet I couldn't do it more than I could flap my arms and fly into the sky above. How I wished I could fly away then. So I bowed instead.

"Welcome to the Second Inn, Prophet. May it find you welcome." I had not garbled the language of Vietmar so much in years and I winced. My head bent low, I noticed my hands still shaking. I scowled at them. In the full day in that hot country, I was cold. The ray of the sun didn't seem to warm me.

"I am sure it shall please me and mine." His words were rituals, the only ones he could say, but his voice was soft. I rose, my back stiff, and couldn't avoid any more his eyes without giving grievous insult. I braced myself for the loathething I was sure to see there.

But as my gaze locked his I found neither disgust nor hate. His dark, clear eyes were as soft as his voice, and gentle still. I frowned a little, uncomprehending and he averted his stare, as if shamed. I knew I should have spoken again, but my confusion had chased the words out of my mind.

"CHA! CHA!"

The cries shook me and I turned my head sharply. Chien was squirming on the saddle of Vien's horse, reaching toward me with his short, chubby arms. Vien was having a hard time keeping him as still as possible, simultaneously avoiding startling his mare. I walked to them and took my son in my arms. The comfort of his small form shocked me to the core. I breathed in and walked back to my friend, while Chien chirruped as a birdie in my arms. I bowed slightly.

"So it shall. Come and be welcome." He was looking at me and Chien, and I wondered if he could tell he was not my blood. But the ceremonial had been carried, and now it was time for the Prophet to present the White Inn to its new Innkeeper. That was not my place, so I retired to my room, with Snowcloud and Chien.

Chien was as tiresome as Vien had claimed. He first chased Snowcloud all around the room, and then threw himself down, screaming, when I tried to stop him. I attempted to distract him, to no avail. Even when my Wit-companion came closer to him again, he didn't stop. My irritation grew and I glanced at the door, wondering where his nanny and Vien were. I tried to pick him up and he flailed with his arms and legs, shrieking. I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes, my temper flaring.

_He is a puppy. And he is alone, Changer. Here, my cub, come here._

Snowcloud's mental words were tolerant. I glared at her, but she just took Chien by the scruff of his neck and lifted him up. Snowcloud is strong, and Chien was small still. Surprised, he stopped. The silence was deafening. Before growing Chyne and Fizek, I had never known how loud a little child can be. I can't say I enjoy this discovery. Chien looked around, blinking. I regarded him and sighed. He was dressed in several layers of silk, with complicated embroidery, as Vien would be wont to dress me if I would allow him. It took me several minutes to take out at least some strata off of it, starting from the complicated headdress that fastened under his chin. By the end, Chien seemed far more relieved and smiled at me. I was looking at the small pile of clothing, when I perceived Vien and another person behind the door. He entered and considered the scene of me, on the floor, with a much less clothed prince playing and giggling with Snowcloud. I noticed he carried something bound in watered, heavy silk in his hands.

"My liege, the little prince should take his repose." I glanced up. Behind Vien, I could almost make out the figure of Chien's nanny. The child ran up to her, and Snowcloud followed him, her tail wagging. I stood up with all the dignity I could muster, and handed to the woman Chien's clothes. She murmured something in thanks and scooped up the prince into her harm. Walking backward and bowing, she left with the child.

Silence fell between me and Vien. The Huan gazed at the white, closed door. I waited, not knowing what I was waiting for. Then Vien turned to me and, without words, unwrapped the package and handed me one of my calligraphy sets. He bowed silently and deeply, and left as stealthy as the wind.

I stood dumbfounded, my fingers caressing the smooth, dark wood. Vien knew how much peace I could gather in the simple movements of brush upon papers and in the flow of inks and he had delivered it. I breathed in, and went to the low table. I crossed my legs under it and methodically took out what I needed. I still make my own inks, sometimes, trying new combinations of Waitan and Vietmar's plants to create vibrant colours. I dipped the brush and looked at the blank paper. The words of an ancient White poem sprang into my mind, twirling and curling as golden strands. My hand flowed over the paper, and I allowed myself to get lost inside the precise crafting of the ideograms.

My peace didn't last till evening. Chyne came to drag me out and talked me into eating a whole bowl of chicken soup. The whole setting was amusing, for the King shouldn't be seen nor heard in a White Inn while the Prophet is in it as well, so I had to eat either in the kitchen or in my room. I elected for the second choice, and to bring my own tray in spite of Vien's vehement outrage. I was still smiling slightly at Vien's and Chyne's light bickering as I climbed up the stairs. I quested towards Snowcloud, to find her in another room, playing with Gao and Chien. I smiled more fully and opened the door with my shoulder.

I almost let the tray fall.

The Prophet turned his head to the door, stopping his examination of my work. I felt suddenly exposed and knew a flash of panic that he had seen my calligraphy in the ancient language of his kin. Why it was so I can't tell, for he knew not the language and couldn't read my words. I think I paled. I closed the door behind me without noticing and waited, looking at him like a deer caught by the hounds' bay, the tray shaking slightly in my hands.

He breathed out and bit his lips. His eyes avoided mine. I could see his throat swallowing.

Seconds stretched into eternity.

"I am sorry."

I blinked. I did not know what I was expecting, but it was not this. His voice was as fine as ever. I studied him some more, mindless of the tray with the cooling soup still in my arms. His slim shoulders were hunched under his rich robe, and his gloved, slender hands clenched and relaxed, as if a tremor was passing through his body. It was as if he was forcing himself to stillness, in spite of great forces shaking him. He was in front of the window, and the hour was the hour of gold, when the sun has started to set yet is still high in the sky. The Prophet swung his auburn eyes to meet mine, their darkness lit in their ancient gold by the glow. Light ran up his cheekbones and dwindled as it merged with his hair. In the fullness of the day luminosity he fitted, like a precious stone in a gold frame, shining in the share beauty of the whole.

"I can't stay for long, but I couldn't -" His voice faltered, and I noticed he was speaking to me in the language of the Six Duchies. I realized it was the same we had spoken ever since we met again, in the cave. "I am sorry. I know how little this matters, but truly, I am. So very, very sorry."

I could only look at him. I am not sure if I knew the words he had spoken then, or if I only recall them in hindsight. I dimly heard voices calling for the Prophet below. A jerk of annoyance shook him and he hesitated, regarding me for a second, before slithering past me, to go to the door beyond my shoulders.

My head and my body followed his movement, like a sunflower follows the sun. He was close, so close I could count the stitch in the delicate embroideryof his white garments. As soon as I set my eyes on it, I knew it as his own work. Odd, how I recall this small thing, even now.

" _Dhil'a_. _Dahshal s'nash-veh heh worla dahshal._ " I breathed out shakily the ancient words, without knowing why. He had stretched a slender hand toward the handle and upon hearing my voice he turned his head to look at me quizzically. My mind registered how pitched was his face, how deep the shadows under his eyes, how dark and full of sorrow the eyes themselves were. I expected him to counterpoint with the second part of the ritual, to answer me in the way Vanyel answered Flint, so long ago. Memories not mine, of a time before my time, hissed secrets at the verge of myself in a tongue like golden strands in the wind. I locked eyes with him and caught my breath and tensed.

"What?"  

I startled a little, spilling the soup on the tray. The movement broke the spell I had been under. Somebody, an old, querulous voice, called for the Prophet again. I saw his lips thinning and he hesitated. With a last glance at me, he left.

I stood bereft and walked slowly toward the table. With deliberate care, I set down the tray, half of the soup now on it instead of in the bowl, and sat down. I looked at my calligraphy, trying to decipher what had just happened.

_Has he hurt you?_

Snowcloud's alarmed word made me shake my head, before remembering she couldn't see me.

_No. He... I don't know. He had never done anything like this._ I could feel my own astonishment and I perceived her pondering on it.

_Perhaps, brother mine, it was high time he did._

I frowned. I was not sure what she meant. But the light streaming inside my room seemed, all at once, brighter than before.


	4. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Ipoeia for her help, and to Sand Dun for his continuing encouragment.
> 
> Of course, I wouldn't be able to go on without Andromeda Aires comments and good points. Thank you. :* I have dedicated this to you^^
> 
> The first interlude of Black! I hope you like the Interludes. I enjoy Flint and Vanyel, but perhaps not everybody does... Do they bore you enough to think I should not post them?
> 
> If you are, like i believe you are, a fan of Robin Hobb there is a contest here you may be interested in!  
> https://www.facebook.com/events/196909967148509/
> 
>  
> 
> Hello! We are happy to host the first international contest on Blood Memories. You are asked to send us an essay between 4000 and 6000 words (NO FAN FICTION) or a fan art based on Robin Hobb's books, and specifically on one of these topics:
> 
> * Skill/Wit/Charms  
> * Childhood: Fitz and Beloved  
> * Rulers and Lands  
> * White Prophets and Catalysts  
> * Masks and Puppets  
> * Liveships and Traders
> 
> The best essay or fan art will be rewarded with a €80 Amazon Gift Card.
> 
> Here are the rules. You can submit your work at info[at]bloodmemories[dot]it within November 1st, 2013. Your email must have the header "BM CONTEST" and contain the indication of the outline you chose to develop. All entered works must be original and should not have been submitted elsewhere; multiple entries from the same person or email address will be disqualified. The winner will be selected by a panel of three judges, who will grade every paper or art between 1 and 10 and account for their decision. Essays and arts will be published on Bloodmemories.it (of course, we will give the right credits to each competitor).
> 
> Please, feel free to contact us for any doubts or questions.
> 
> Good luck to all the participants!
> 
> http://www.bloodmemories.it/forum/showthread.php?tid=1153
> 
> :)

** Interlude **

_The boy is standing on a rock, looking out at the skyline, a sun-tanned hand shielding blue-grey eyes. He frowns and squints, the far too close mountain of ice reverberating a hundred rainbows. It looms on the horizon. When the boy was a child, the Ice Mountain was far away. Now the boy's shoulders are wide and strong, and the glacier has eaten away half of the valley, trapping the Tribe and the animals together._

_The cold is crisp, and every one of the boy's breaths condense in the air. He turns his head, looking down at the Tribe's cave. There is fire, but it is a small bone-flame. There is no more strong wood in the plains to burn. Flint looks at the people. Two years ago, when he had gone to search for his Companion, there were twenty strong hunters, and as many True Mothers and perhaps twice the children. Now, half of them remains. Small, pitiful forms huddle around the fire, their very bearing dejected. The boy's left hand clutches his spear. He breathes in and gulps at the coldness of the air._

_The boy's blue-gray eyes leave the piteous forms of his tribesmen. Whiteclaw growls. Flint looks at him and sighs, inclining his straw-coloured head. The jaguar had grown, too. His heavy coat is gray and yellow, sleek and spotted. The tail lashes. Flint reaches out to scratch him between the ears._

_"I don't like it."_

_The voice is soft and musical, but its precision seems to shatter the frosty silence of the icy day. Flint turns and so does Whiteclaw. Vanyel is standing in the grass, at the foot of the rock. He is frowning, too. His whole body is covered in furs, warmed and heavier than the one Flint has, and a cap hides his hair. His skin has lost the complete whiteness of childhood. Now, a faint greyish hue suffuses it, the colour of a dove's chest plumes. He raises his pearly eyes upon Flint._

_"Can you think of something better? Listen now, you must be on the other side of the Rock Mountain before we come out of it. I have showed you the way."_

_Vanyel thins his lips._

_Flint hesitates and jumps down the boulder. He is still taller than the White boy, who has to cock his head to look at him. Whiteclaw looks at them from his perch over the sun-warmed rock, and yawns._

_"Can you do it, Vanyel? The water is going to be cold. I have left furs and embers for you in a hidden place on the other side. You should find them..." Flint's voice is as soft as the smoother one of the White._

_"... By the written sign. You told me already, Flint. Yes, I can do it. I must. It is not for me that I fear. It is not me who is going to be hunted." Vanyel's voice is clipped, almost angry. A sweep of cold wind blows over the prairie and the White shivers. Flint furrows his brow and envelops the other boy inside his furred cloak, sharing his leathers and his warmth with him. Vanyel's body is smaller, and slender beside, and it seems to mold against the human's sturdier one._

_"I understand you not, Dhil'amin. You said you came to save them, and yet you don't seem to want them saved." The lilt of amusement tints Flint's words as they are spoken among Vanyel's hair._

_The White snorts._

_"Save them is my duty for it helps me to save the World, but the whole of their lives is not worth a second of yours to me."_

_Flint regards Vanyel and says nothing. For a moment, the three of them, the two boys sharing warmth from each other and the giant jaguar stealing warmth from the sun, stay still. Then Vanyel and Flint part and Whiteclaw leaps down the rock._

_Vanyel turns toward the river. It grows and retracts with the seasons, and now, in winter, where most of the water is in the Ice Mountain, it is at its smallest._

_"Don't die, D'hilamin. Don't die. And come back to me."_

_Flint's words seem no more than a breath in the wind. Vanyel freezes and nods jerkily and, without turning, runs towards the River of the Deads. Flint tries to follow the lithe figure in the high grasses, but Vanyel has learnt much in the past eight years. He blends with the steppes and Flint, for all his skill, soon loses him._

_With a sigh, the boy turns towards the cave where he had lived for more than ten years. He stops at the mouth of it and gazes inside. There is nothing here of what made it home. No sleeping fur, no weapon rack, no meat or wooden or bone or horn utensils. Only the fire, a bone-fire like the one of the cave below, remains. Flint thins his lips and swallows. He turns to Whiteclaw and something passes between the boy and the beast. Then he takes a stout branch, a rarity in the now woodless valley, and sits close to the fire._

_Then he waits. He has to leave time for Vanyel to go to the other side of the Rock Mountain, through the River's underground passage._

_The boy sits and holds still. Two pairs of eyes look at the flame._

_They wait._

____

_The White boy walks stealthily in the high grasses. His movements are so subtle that the plants almost don't move at his passage. He is indeed different from the small, half starved little thing that couldn't find food. His right hand clutches the spear, and his heavy leather, the furs inside, kept him as warm as possible._

_He follows the river, walking at a steady, measured pace. He doesn't have the outer sense of his dhil'a, and can only rely on what he does have: his sight, his ears, his nose. But it is enough._

_He comes to the place where the river shifts. Half of it goes toward a lake, now frozen, where once, Flint had told him, birds came during the good season to lay eggs. Vanyel has never seen it. They had stopped coming to that icy shore before his arrival._

_He breathes and goes to the Deads' River. The River runs inside the high slopes of the Rock Mountain, canyons festooned in frost. He stops a second when a dancing rainbow, child of a ray of sun and a stalagmite of pure ice, seems to bridge the gap between the stone walls. Then he continues walking. The walk is steeper now, the rocks devoid of life and slippery by glaze, but the boy appears to jump from one to other almost without  touching them._

_Then he ceases walking, perched atop a rock._

_The River enters a cave. There is no place to go. Save into the water._

_Vanyel breathes out and grimly starts to disrobe, as fast as he can. He puts almost all his furs in a watertight weaved basket. For a second, he stands still and his slim hand squeeze the opal that hangs from a leather string from his neck. His almost naked body has nearly the same very light grey colour of the rock around him. On his back, over his backbone, a line of soft plumes disappear down his loincloth. His whole body is more slight and graceful than the one of the Tribes and his feet, as slender as his hands, seem - different._

_Vanyel clenches his jaw and jumps into the water, keeping the basket above it and grimly starts swimming toward the other side._

_____

_Flint rises to his feet. Outside it is midday, but the light is gray, the sun not strong enough to fight the cold away. He takes the branch and nods to Whiteclaw. The giant jaguar leaps out. Flint thrusts the branch into the fire and watches it as it blazes. (Mention that he takes the branch with him, once he is sure it has caught fire.)_

_Then he goes out and looks at the wind. He nods to himself. A perfect day: the wind is blowing from the Rock Mountain at his back and towards the river. The Tribe will have to follow it._

_The boy makes a round detour, to the other side of the Clan's cave whence he was, and sets the branch down. The dry grasses catch fire immediately. He runs, fast, dragging the fire behind him._

_Soon, the Tribe's voice reaches him. He smiles crookedly and runs till he is at the top of the hill, close to his former home again. He shouts. The Hunter Brothers raise their heads. So do the True Mothers and the few children left. There are no more Olds._

_Flint shouts again and raises the fiery branch and weaves it in the air. The Tribe roars its anger. They can't stay in the Cave. Already, the plants all around it are burning. The Cave will soon be too hot to live in, and the smoke will choke them. They know it. Flint waits long enough for the first one to take a stone and throw it at him._

_Then he flees. All the Tribe follows him._

_His Outer Sense feels them and he bounds and runs. He feels their thirst for blood, his blood._

_He spares time to glance behind. The wildfire is spreading fast, roaring as a mighty beast._

_The Tribe is following him, towards the water. He keeps them hot on his trail. He knows how to._

_____

_The River flows into the cave. During spring or summer, fed by what little water the sun can melt from the glacier, it would be far higher and as such there is air between the current and the ceiling. Air, but no light. The river flows into the darkness, the murmur of water echoing a thousand times, sharing ancient tales with the rock._

_Vanyel's movements are sluggish. He is swimming still, but he has lost the vigor of before. He almost floats at times, before shuddering and moving again. He blinks and grips the basket tighter. Then he shakes his head and looks harder._

_There is a gleam ahead._

_The light seems to call to the White boy. With all the strength he has left, he tries to reach for it. His body is beyond cold, and his thoughts are as lethargic as his motions. With a last spasm, he almost stumbles upon the shore. His legs have long since lost all feeling, and his feet are unable to process that there is sand, not water, under him. He tries to stand, falls into the icy water and tries again. His teeth are chattering and he clutches his basket while trying to get out of the water. He stumbles again, falling on the ground with a pained sound. Again he rises, and looks around for the promised embers and shelter. His eyes scan the rocks. A symbol catches them and he drags himself up there, his body beyond shivering. Behind a boulder, in a sheltered place, he finds the hollow horn and the kindling. With unfeeling, clumsy hands, he makes the fire and starts to dry himself._

_Dressed and a little warmer, the White boy looks up at the sky while painful needles start to prick his skin. He grits his teeth. He takes what he has, looks longingly at the fire and extinguishes it._

_He has to go to a place farther away, a safer one._

_The Tribe is not going to be happy, once on the other side of the Rock Mountain. And he and Flint are going to need to hide._

_____

_Flint stops his run._

_Panting a little, he crouches (Does he crouch behind something? Like a rock? You should clarify that point). He coughs. The fire has spread well. Too well. He frowns and jerks his head, inclining it as if to listen to somebody. Then he slithers ahead almost on all four and peers around (Peers around what. This relates to my first comment)._

_With a roar, a man of the Tribe appears. One of the True Hunter. Pure hatred shines in his eyes and a flash of pain passes through Flint's at seeing it. The Hunter raises the massive club._

_Whiteclaw jumps on him from behind, and the man falls. Flint screams, and the giant jaguar stops his jaw. Boy and feline lock eyes for a second._

_Then Flint turns and runs again. The path towards the River is blocked. He goes towards the flames._

_____

_Vanyel crouches upon a boulder on the other side of the Rock Mountain, high over where the river flows out of it. The sun has set. The Tribe has passed behind him unnoticed. Their fires are on the other side of the river from where the White boy has put his and his Dhil'a meager possessions._

_Vanyel's fingers torment the opal and his teeth worry his lip. His slender frame shakes more now than it had from the icy river. There is barely enough light to see, the moon half full in the sky glistens cold and distant, yet the White boy's eyes scan the water tirelessly._

_Then the lithe body tenses, and leaps down. Half running, half sliding, half falling, Vanyel comes to the end of the mountain. A big figure is dragging a still form out of the water. Whiteclaw raises his lambent gold eyes to the White boy and Vanyel runs and takes Flint under his arms and drags him away from the water. Then he kneels and heaves. He walks towards the shelter, cradling his dhil'a against his chest. Whiteclaw circles them, his tail lashing anxiously._

_In the small, hidden refuge, he carefully sets Flint over the furs, brought there by him time before. At the light of the fire, he takes a look at his dhil'a. Vanyel's eyes widen in shock, and his hand goes to cover his mouth. All the left side of Flint's face is burnt, from his cheek to his neck and so is his shoulder and left arm up to his elbow. For a second, the boy stands still. Then he leaps and runs, with a wooden bowl in his hands, outside._

_Whiteclaw regards him for a moment and stands on watch._

_The White boy splashes in the water, taking the cool liquid in the bowl, then he runs back to the shelter. He doesn't look at the fire of the Tribe, not far away. Slowly, he washes the burn, delicately removing hair and clothes from it. He disrobes his dhil'a with care, checking for other injury._

_Outside, the moon shines on the fires of the Tribe, on the right side of the River, and on the single fire of Flint and Vanyel, on the left side. The Ice Mountain and the doomed prairie glistens on the other side of the Rock Mountain._

_But Vanyel, as he tends to his beloved, cares not for any of this._


	5. Obsidian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Ipoeia for her help, and to Sand Dun for his continuing encouragment.
> 
> Of course, I wouldn't be able to go on without Andromeda Aires comments and good points. Thank you. :* I have dedicated this to you^^
> 
> The first interlude of Black! I hope you like the Interludes. I enjoy Flint and Vanyel, but perhaps not everybody does... Do they bore you enough to think I should not post them?
> 
> If you are, like i believe you are, a fan of Robin Hobb there is a contest here you may be interested in!  
> https://www.facebook.com/events/196909967148509/

** Chapter Four: Obsidian **

 

_As everybody knows, the Great Fleet has been a part of Clerres for as long as Vietmar itself. The coast of Clerres is not fit for harbors and docks, save in Dushanbe and Fisil. The high cliffs and deserts that overlook the ocean, and the steppes that embrace Clerres, keep us safe from the Barbarians. Of course, it is not without reason: we are Clerres because the Whites, in their Wisdom, have chosen us, and their choices depended on those very facts._

_The Great Fleet used to sail every five or six years to go to the Barbarian Lands beyond the Wisdom of the Whites. The fact that Vietmar had allowed such a loss of fortunes and goods and oftentimes lives in an effort to bring some of our civilization to the Barbarians had always earned praise for the Kings of Vietmar. On occasion, when Prophets were called outside of the White Land in a noble effort to save us all from sure destruction, they went with the Great Fleet, specifically manned for them, so that all who come into contact with them would know who they were and heed their words, even in the lands of the Barbarians. When such a Great Fleet is manned, a special ship is constructed for the White Prophet alone, with white woods and candid sails. This is called the White Ship and belongs to the Prophet alone._

_Excerpt from "The White Land" by Thar'Mirar of Atremandia_

 

That night, I could not sleep. The memory of the Prophet's words agitated my mind and the Jungle called to me, wild and thrumming with life to my Wit. I tossed around in my bed, and the silk sheet chafed my skin. I glanced out of the window. Thousands of stars flickering through rags of moving clouds. The smell of green life came in through the window on a breeze, like a wave, as intoxicating as the Skill. I licked my lips and closed my eyes, trying stubbornly to sleep. I couldn't do anything. I was King Xanhà Doi Chihn of Vietmar.

_Brother, come._

Snowcloud's words jolted me. They were as subtle as a whisper and as strong as good brandy. I sat on my bed and went whither my packed clothes were laid. Silently, without lighting naught a candle, I felt in the darkness for the bundle I knew would be here. My fingers closed over it. I took it and stealthily went out. I did not stop to think, or I wouldn't have gone. I refused to reflect on what I was doing, to think on what Vien or the Prophet may have thought of me for slithering out of the White Inn. Blessedly, I met no one. The Inn itself was quiet, the people asleep in their rooms. I could detect none awake in the upper floor. I went down the stair, trusting my bare feet. I walked as Chade had taught me, lifetimes and half a World away, placing my feet silently, moving within the shadowiest parts of the passageways, walking to the sides where floorboards were less likely to creak. And it all felt as natural. A sliver of gold, the outline of a kitchen door left ajar, stopped my track. I balanced on the balls of my feet, and sent tendrils of Wit towards the inside. A kitchen maid, preparing for the banquet for the White Prophet. I waited till I knew her to be standing with her back to the door, and then I ghosted past her.

I went outside. Coolness, and the rich scents of the earth. Tension eased away from me, taking my pain and confusion with it. I breathed and smiled, enjoying the simple feeling of soil between my toes and the moonlight over my skin. I bared my teeth in something that was not a smile, nor a snarl and and turned my back to the Inn, moving through the night towards the Jungle. The Jungle is never asleep, and I could feel game and hunters both abroad, locked in the most ancient of dance between life and death. At the verge of the vegetation I stripped the clothes of King Chihn, and every layer that fell away felt like a layer less on my heart. Snowcloud watched me, silent and white as a ghost. The moon made her fur look almost silvery and her blue eyes shone. Naked, I groped for the bundle, and wrapped my loins with the cloth that is the only garment that the Khams' males use and my feet in the high, flexible sandals they wear, with laces coming to the knees. I kept the charms against bugs on my neck and ears, and the band that tied my hair. I smiled as my fingers closed over the last item: the long, black obsidian blade that is called "khamrang", the Khams' Tooth. I hung it from my neck, as it has to be worn.

Then we ran into the Jungle. The packed earth of a game trail was beneath my feet, and I was moving softly through darkness, following my companion. The people of Clerres that have to make their way into the Jungle do so by hacking away with blades. The Khams laugh at them, for the true way is to move in such a way that you slither among the plants. It took me years to learn how to do so, and I am still so very clumsy that even the Khams' treechildren mock me, though I am better by far than any hunter of Clerres.

Snowcloud went more quietly than night itself, each step sure and swift. She was fleeter than me on the ground, and her mind taunted me without words when I couldn't jump a fallen log or I lost time bending to pass under a heavy creeper. By retaliation, I took to the canopy. There are whole paths in the trees, fifty and one or two hundred feet above the ground. Making the way is less dangerous than it seems, for the trees are so packed together, and the branches so thick and sturdy, that even in the darkness of the night it is hard to fall, provided that one takes care of where he walks, and uses his hands as well as his feet. I can only climb half as well as I can run, but I have seen the monkey-bonded of the Khams make their way up the highest branches, and felt my head swim at the sight alone.

We dashed in the night, following the trail of a muntjac, a creature not unlike a small deer. We could hear the distant cry of the hunted and the hunter, and the insects' constant hum and chirrup all around us. I could feel the sap in the trees all around me, and the flickering of the bugs' light revealed the outline of the branches and of the creepers as brightly as the sun. The Jungle, all of it, is alive.

Without words or conscious thought, Snowcloud ran the muntjac under the low branch I was perched on, my khamrang ready in my hand. I leaped on the small animal. It was fat and well fed. We fed from our kill, then Snowcloud flung herself down in the moon dappled jambu shade,. I climbed over it and made a small nest with the great fringed leaves. We drowsed..)  

Something, perhaps the first light that heralds dawn, caught my closed eyelids and woke me. I bolted and almost fell from the tree, catching the branch just in time to avoid tumbling gracelessly to the jungle floor. Still holding onto the branch, I tried to gauge have how much time I had; never an easy task where the canopy is so thick that the sunrays never made it to the ground, even in the brightest midday.

Snowcloud raised her head, awoken too by the noise.

_Now, brother mine, this isn't nice of you. I was sleeping._

I tried to glare at her, without much success. It is hard to glare upside-down.

She cocked her head.

_You look rather like a sloth._

I refused to dignify this statement with an answer. I look like no sloth. I gritted my teeth and managed to get to the ground with a minimum of indignity and bruising.

_We need to be where we were yester eve, and soon, sister._

She shrugged and stood up, and we made our way back.

As free and simple as the run of the night before had been, as riddled with thoughts and worries was the one of dawn. I feared not getting to the White Inn in time. What had I been thinking, leaving like that? I was not a boy, to go and hunt and run with the wolves. I was a man and a king, and had duties towards my people and friends. I cursed myself and tried to run faster, my breath in my throat and my heart hammering in my chest.

But no race is as hopeless as the one against time. When I stopped, panting, close to the White Inn, I could hear above my breaths and the sound of my blood rushing in my ears, the sounds of the Inn and Vien's voice. My hands on my knees, I tried to recall a way, any way, to enter the place without being recognized. I eyed the place where I had left the clothes the night before and damned myself under my breath. Servants were passing through, too close for me to go there and retrieve them in safety. After a little though, I decided to try the door close to the stable. With any luck, I could be inside and in my room without anybody noticing the king dressed in naught but a loincloth, sandals, some charms and a neck-knife.

_The way is clear, brother mine. I smell none._

I thanked Snowcloud and made a dash, with what little breath I had back, to the stable.

And met the Prophet, coming out of the door I wanted to get in.

We both stared at each other for a dumbfounded instant. He was dressed in his customary White Prophet robes, but of a fresher material, clean cotton and linen, with amber beads sowed in weaves and spirals. Their tawny hue enhanced the gold shades still present in his colouring. He looked at me with a shocked expression in his burnished eyes and for no reason I felt shame. I was clean of blood at least, but I knew I looked like a savage to somebody of Clerres. My heart thudded and my eyes darted at to the windows of my room. As I heard voice rounding the corner I could taste despair. It would not be the end of King Chihn to be seen as a Kham, for many knew of my sympathy for them, but this was not the moment nor the place. If there is something my time in Clerres had taught me, is how solemn their ceremonies are, even more so the one involving the White Prophet. The least thing I needed was for King Chihn to be seen even more as a barbarian as he already was.

The Prophet darted forward and passed close to me, turning the corner. Bewildered, I could hear him speaking, something about his horse and a desire for a slightly later departure. I can't tell more, for I bolted up the stairs and latched the door behind my shoulders, leaning on it, my heart still caught in my throat. I rested my nape on the hard wood. Had it been what it seemed? Had the Prophet tried to spare King Chihn the humiliation of being seen in the morning of a Holy Travel as a savage?

_Has anybody ever told you that you think too much?_

I smiled at Snowcloud's comment and opened my eyes.

_You, sister, several times. And your grandfather, as well._

I could hear her mental snort.

_Being smart is in my blood. Together with being beautiful, of course. And graceful. And humble. Now hurry up, brother mine. Somebody is coming to you._

I went to the basin and washed the remnants of blood from my nails.

_Who?_

_The Young One._

I groaned and changed my clothing. Dark brown and gold again. I was winning my battle against Vien and his desire to dress me in fair colour. For now. I heard someone knocking at the door and raised my eyes to it.

"Come," I called. Vien slipped in and bowed slightly. I sighed, eyeing him and drying my face. The young Liantharinan's one gave away nothing, but I knew from his own careful shielding that he was angry, and alarmed. I returned his gaze. Vien locked eyes with me for a moment, then sighed. His shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes. I watched him, concerned. Before I could speak, he did.

"The journey was uneventful, my liege." I could see him taking a long breath. " But the Prophet was... Interested in you."

I breathed out.

"Had he taken offense at my absence from the retinue?"

Vien seemed to think it over a little and shook his black head, slowly. "No. He... were he another person, and not the Prophet... I would have said he was... worried."

I bit my lips and felt my shoulder muscles  knotting. Vien was trained to be perceptive, and his Skill made him doubly so. I passed my hand over my chin. It felt rough. I suddenly remembered I hadn't shaved in a day, and cringed. Last thing I needed was to seem even more a barbarian. Vien followed my gesture and raised an eyebrow. I sighed.

"You can shave me, Vien. And then... We need to talk about the prince. I am not sure bringing him among the Khams is the best idea. Perhaps better to leave him with most of the retinue. You'll be there, as well as his nanny. It would be best."

I sat while Vien prepared the necessary to shave. I gazed unseeing at the wooden wall. Scenes from the history of Waitan were painted over them in delicate strokes.

The room was a typical one for the White Inn: a simple square with the bed in a in one corner. A small, yellow-lacquered short closet with some flower in a deceptively simple bow rested in the opposite one. On the third wall, a window gave a view of the jungle outside. Under the window, was a low desk for writing. As most, indeed all, of Clerres' desks, this one was made for people kneeling, not sitting on chair. I had never liked to shave kneeling, but I have learnt to manage. There was nothing more, as simplicity is the most important feature of the White Inns everywhere in Clerres. Not even a King would be treated with a luxurious room. The White Roads and the White Inns belong to the White Prophets, and they have been keen to remember it to all the rulers of Clerres.  

Over the desk Vien put the mirror and the basin with the water that the Inn provided to every guest, be it beggar or king. He did so without words. It was so peculiar that I turned my head to look at him sharply. I noticed then the shallowness of his skin and the dark shadows under his eyes. I closed mine. Perhaps it was weakness, but I couldn't deal with him, too. I let him shave me, forcing myself into stillness. He never touched me directly, for experience has taught both of us how little I care for touch since five years ago.

"I have spared Suen Ghuozi."On hindsight, I should have waited till he didn't have a blade close to my skin before speaking, but I couldn't avoid giving him the information. He may have had need of it. Vien gasped and the blade nicked the underside of my chin. I flinched and looked at him accusingly. Vien looked back at me in shock. I sighed and reached, blindly, for a towel.

"Not publicly, Vien. For all of Clerres, he is dead." My Huan was wide-eyed, the razor still in his hand. Then he blinked and hurried to clean it and give me ginksoap. I could see him worrying his lips. I sighed again. "I know it wasn't wise. You need not to find a way to tell me. But he was nothing but a foolish boy. He didn't deserve death."

Vien said nothing. Then, "Bright Jade doesn't know." I nodded at him and sighed. "They aren't Skilled, so no, she doesn't. I dare not to tell her." Vien nodded again, frowning and standing very still. He continued shaving me. I watched him. I would have never made it this far in Clerres had I not saved the Great Trainers that fateful day I was named Demonsbane, for the price of the saving had been my pick among the young Huan. Vien hadn't been thrilled at first to be Huan of a lowly barbarian, but then, I hadn't known what to do with a servant eunuch. In the years, we have came to know of each other. If any, in all of Clerres, deserved to know something about my past, it was him.

After the shaving I stood up and turned. Vien was looking at the ground, his face pinched and worried. I sighed. "You know about the Whites' Catalysts, Vien?" I asked him, quietly.

The young eunuch raised his black eyes and frowned, nodding. "All know of them, my Lord. The one who change, following the will and wisdom of the Prophet. Yes, I know of it."

I averted my eyes. "I am his. His Catalyst. And he, my Prophet."

I could hear his gasp, but I didn't turn nor stopped. I walked toward the door and down the hall. I quested toward Snowcloud, but she had separated herself from me. I frowned, wondering why, but I felt not danger from her. Perhaps she was still in the Jungle.

The main room of the White Inn was packed with people. After my solitary hunt in the Jungle, they seemed many and loud. Light-dressed monks, their skins all the colour that Clerres houses, from the dark of Uzkabat and Kizah to the fair tones of Liantharin, bowed at me and so did the people of my retinue. I heard Vien's feet behind me. I noticed Gao playing a game of colourful stones with Chien in a corner. I could hear their giggles. I smiled and went to them, noticing as I went that Chien seemed to have been dressed in a more practical way than the day before. Gao and the nanny bowed at my approach and Chien grinned at me, showing three amber stones in his small, chubby hand. "Look, Cha! Sones!". Gao smiled at him, bemused. "Stones, Chien." The child looked at his hand, frowned, and tried to repeat it. "Shones." I couldn't help but chuckle. "You are good, son. And good job, Gao.," I added. The boy's face lightened up. I regarded him. He seemed healthy and sound if somewhat tired. A loud crash made me turn on my heels, spinning. A crate of some good had been let fall by a servant, and it she was being berated by one of the guard. The servant kneeled to retrieve what had rolled down. I frowned. Servants in Clerres are usually better trained than that. She had the livery of the Amber Castle. I watched her and frowned again. She reminded me of someone. I shrugged it off. I had probably seen her in the Castle. I disregarded the little incident, and went on.

I nodded and talked small talk, noticing both Tiàn Heng and Suen Bright Jade. The latter didn't seem well. All the paint and cosmetics in the World would not hide the shallowness of her skin, nor the pain in her gaze. When she looked at me, a flash of hatred passed through her gaze. I wished I could tell her.

The room seemed too crowded. I disregarded the food set for me on the table and went toward the stable, hoping to find peace here. Vien's footstep followed mine.

_You should care more about what is going to happen, brother mine._

I frowned and halted my steps just beyond the door of the stable.

_Snowcloud? I searched for you before._

_This I well know. Listen here: Keala and the Free People are around the trail already. I spoke with him. He said there should be no difficulties in bringing you to the Tree, but some streams have changed their course all at once and the trip is going to be longer. It will pass through places we haven't gone, Changer. And some of those are close to the Panther's Hunting Grounds._

Snowcloud's tidings shouldn't have surprised me. We should have meet them in the morning of the morrow, to go together, the Prophet, Chyne, Gao and me, to the Council Tree and present the White to the Peoples of the Jungle, the Khams. It was only logical that they would indeed be all around the White Road, to watch and listen. Yet surprise me they did. And the Panther's People had all reasons to hate me. This was not good news.

_Thank you, sister. Will you stay with the Khams?_

_Yes. Keala is no youngster. I really love his fur. He is a strong and wise leader of the Pack and a good hunter. You know, he and I...._

I determinedly shut down our connection amidst her burst of laughter clear as a spring. I had no desire to inquire about her relationship with Keala, the leader of the Free People, as the wolf-bonded call themselves in the Kham's language.

"King Chihn, I desire to speak with thee and thee alone."

I tensed completely for a moment. Then I breathed out and bowed deeply to the Prophet. I could hear Vien's sharp intake of breath. I said nothing to him, but even before my bow had ended I could hear the stable door opening and closing again. I quested lightly around, but there was no one, only horses and some cats. No people. I had no doubt it was no coincidence.

I had no choice. I swallowed and straightened up.

The Prophet was looking at me. He had not changed from earlier, save in binding his hair into a simple tail. The severe style was good on him, enhancing the planes of his lean cheeks and high forehead and long straight nose. I felt my mouth dry and my heart started beating fast. My muscles tried to tense, and I had to consciously relax them. I breathed out.

"I knew you would come here." I blinked. Those were not the words nor the language I had been expecting, for he was speaking in the tongue of the Six Duchies. I knew not what to say, so I stood silent and watched him. It was the dry season, and the closed stable was hot. Sweat was leaking down my spine. He said nothing more and just looked at me, with a mixture of emotions so deep they resembled quiet, as the deepest of water may seem shallow. As I watched him, he brought an elegant hand to his brown, wiping the sweat aside. In silence, I went to a rock were where cool, clean water was kept for the horses and immersed my neckerchief in it. I heard him making a pained sound as I moved, and wondered why. Then I came back and handed the wet cloth to him. He looked at me and then at it, uncomprehending. I thrust it towards him again.

"Take it. It is too hot for you. You'll get a headache," I told him, patiently. He blinked again and, like a man in a dream, took it. His movements were so strange, slow and almost drowsy, that I feared he had already suffered too much heat. Without thought, I extended my dry hand to touch the back of his and was relieved to feel the usual coolness of his skin.

The relief was short lived. He tensed as I touched him and I let my hand drop like a burned man. I swallowed. Perhaps he didn't like to be touched by a whore. I turned my head to hide the pain in my eyes.

"Thank you." His voice was soft and carried no venom. I risked glancing at him. He was using the neckerchief to wipe his brow and the back of his neck, and he couldn't quite hide the pleasure of the simple coolness. I shrugged and hesitated. I did not know what to do. There were questions I wanted to make ask, but I feared them, and even more I dreaded his reactions. Worse still, those weren't things he had ever been forthcoming about. Yet I needed to pry his dreams to know if some of them carried the seed of prophecy, or to ask him if he had felt a whiff of foreboding the day we had met again. But I couldn't very well ask such of him.

I glanced at him. He was stretching the damp cloth in his hand with something deeper than sadness and more yearning than sorrow in his face. I didn't know what to do, but I knew silence was not an answer.

"We will meet the Khams tomorrow. Keala of the Free People is already following us."

I bit my lips as I spoke, for how could I explain to somebody who loathed me that I had made him Nguoi'Yeu? He raised his eyes and blinked again at me, nodding. "The Free People. King Chihn's writing... your writing, I suppose,." I nodded at it, even if there was no reason to. " They are the wolf-bonded, are they not?" I nodded again, and a little smile played over his lips, but it was as devoid of joy as the salt desert is devoid of life. I did not know one could smile in despair. Such an expression on him at once dismayed and pained me. I watched him in confusion. He sighed.

"I read of it when you... When I thought you dead. The idea of meeting them haunted me when I thought of this travel in my rooms, in Behit. I wondered if there would be any like you. And I knew there couldn't be."

I blinked once more at his quiet words. I was at a loss and as such I spoke before thinking, and it was neither kind nor wise of me. In my defense I can only say that his wavering between friendship and hate were too much for me to understand. I have never been good with feelings.

"I thought you preferred me dead."

He recoiled as if I had struck him. He shuddered and then swayed, like a sapling that feels the first blow of the axe and then he closed his eyes, but not before I could see the flash of agony in them. It confused me. Had he not spoken the very same words to me, no more than a score of days before?

He opened his mouth as if to speak but nothing came of it but a sound in the back of his throat, a halted, choking noise. He bowed his head and shook it, slowly. He was gripping the cloth so hard, I thought for a fleeting moment he would rip it. His dark knuckles were white, and all his body was so tense that when he swallowed it looked like it could shatter him.

"I think I prefer to be alive. All things considered.," I said, and he raised his head to meet my eyes. We were of height, and I had got unused to people being able to stare me directly in the eyes, as very few of Vietmar and of Liantharin are as tall as I am. His eyes were like dark puddles of misery, and so wide. For a moment, I had an uncanny sense I had already known a look like and unlike the one he was giving me now. Then I remembered. When I opened his eyes, and meet mine with his soul behind them, then he had looked at me thusly.

He breathed out, a shaky, puffy breath.

"So do I. All things considered." I couldn't help but smile. He sobered again and regarded me. "Even... even more now."

Before I could ask him what he meant, hopeful in a resuming of his prescience, the door opening shattered the moment. We both turned toward it as one man, and I could feel the man in the hallway wither under our combined gazes.

"I... beg your forgiveness, Your Wisdom and Your Majesty, but the caravan is ready. We need to go or we will be late..." He piped in, trying to become smaller. I sighed. He was just a servant, and it was not his fault that he had, I suspected, been picked to hurry us along.

"We are coming," The Prophet said. I nodded and left the first step to him, as I had to. We went outside, and the relative coolness revived me, my heart already lighter than before. I breathed in as we moved with the same step towards were our horses were kept by Vien and a young monk I didn't know. I glanced at the Prophet and found him glancing back at me. As I mounted, I had to bite my lips to avoid smiling, and noticed him doing the same.

I nodded to Vien, who took his mare. I glanced at the Prophet, we gave heels to our horses in the same moment. We journeyed toward the Khams.


	6. Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Ipoeia for her help, and to Sand Dun for his continuing encouragment.
> 
> Of course, I wouldn't be able to go on without Andromeda Aires comments and good points. Thank you. :* I have dedicated this to you^^
> 
> Thanks for everybody who follows this. I hope you will leave a comment for me^^ They really make my day.

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** Chapter Five: Shadows **

 

_Even if the Khams are considered a single entity in Clerres, this is not a strict truth._

_The Khams do indeed share many traits. They all have the Siòng, the ability to perceive all life, and to bond with it. They all live with beasts, whom they count as having as much value as men. They are, all, warriors. But, as adulthood come comes, they discover their own bond-animal and from then onwards they considered their people as the one who share the same companion, or in some case a similar one. So there are the Free People, the wolf-bonded, the Panther People, bonded to cats, the Monkey People, and many more. They live and die following their People, both humans and animals, and give more thoughts to a stranger of their same People than to a relative of another, whom in fact they would not consider related to them at all._

_When King Chihn's words about them first came to the White Land, and people learnt of the Siòng-bond, many thought the Khams who bonded with meat-eaters to be fiercer than their grass-eater kin. Not so. Deer-bonded and buffalo-bonded can be as much or more dangerous than the wolf-bonded or panther-bonded, for they have fewer restriction in their fighting._

_It was the panther-bonded that suffered most in the coming of Vietmar over the shore of Waitan, for they occupied, among other, the space that is now the city of Silvarin. When the settlers came too soon, they either killed or drove away the panther-bonded and their bond-companions. King Chihn was elsewhere then, busy in assuring that the Council of the Tree-Sisters would accept to be part of Vietmar, and could not stop the slaughter._

_However, as the strange custom of the Khams favor the strong over the weak, the taking of the shore for the city and of the plain for the fieldswas considered legitimate by the Council and the negotiations went on._

_A most important part of the treaty was the decision on the status of the White Prophet. For among the Khams one's rank doesn't depend on his or her actions or abilities per se, but on the importance that others of his or her kin give to them, demonstrated in the amount of gifts and ceremonies made in his or her name. King Chihn labored for years and most of his personal wealth went to assure that all the People of Waitan would concede to the White Prophet the most high status of Nguoi'Yeu: Beloved._

From "The Annexion of Waitan" Of Huan Vien'cua'Chihn

 

 

The day went on as it had started: hot and humid. Occasionally, a very light breeze came off the jungle and stirred my hair, carrying the verdant scent of the great wilderness. We rode in silence.

I traveled almost knee to knee with the Prophet, yet I could not speak to him. Too many ears were listening, and few of them friendly. I glanced at him as often as I could. The roan he was riding was a lively, spirited animal, and my Wit made me feel her not unlike a sparkle of fire. She reminded me of Malta, but so had always been his preference in horses. He rode well , sitting on his horse with elegant ease,; he always had. Now I wondered where he'd learnt, for it sure was not in Clerres, nor in the stables of Buckkeep. Another question I couldn't ask.

We traveled slowly, as big groups are wont to do, and even more so when there are high personages among them. I itched to speed Toiden beyond that slow walk. Even more, I itched to leave behind the road itself and take to the Jungle. It called to me, whispering at the edge of my Wit. I clenched my fist over the reins and set my jaw, my eyes on the way in front of us. I shifted on my saddle, uneasy. I found myself glancing often around, searching for Snowcloud without finding her. I wasn't worried, for if she was with Keala and his pack, then she was safe. But my nerves were frayed, and I longed for her comforting presence with me.

I glanced again at the Prophet and wondered how to explain to him, a stranger without the Wit, his standing among the Khams. I bit my lip. I had never thought I would have to explain to him at all. I suddenly realized that there was, indeed, a topic I might branch with him, perhaps a way to introduce the other, as well. I turned my head toward him. For a second, I could look at him openly. His dark mien was impassive and detached. He looked like a statue cast from bronze, and just as remote and perfect. Once again I was struck by how different he was from the youth I used to know. I felt my words die in my throat. I may have turned my eyes to the road and not spoken at all, had he not turned to look back at me. His eyes, for all their dark colouring, were more familiar to me than my own. His face was emotionless, but his gaze had a soft, yearning quality that I couldn't define. I took heart in that and breathed in before speaking, the hot air giving little respite.

"Some streams have changed their course. We shall have to change ours, as well. It won't change the time, but the path will be different."

He glanced at the jungle around us and nodded.

"It is not like I could find my way inside here. I'll follow you."

I nodded and eyed him again. He was looking at the forest on to both sides, and there was something very like worry in his eyes. I spoke again, softly this time.

"The Jungle can be dangerous. Deadly, even. Yet it hides great beauty. Look." I pointed to what looked like a leaf on the road to him. He looked at it, then at me, perplexed. I smiled. At the next step of our horses, what looked like a big leaf scattered in a swash of thousand tiny butterflies, their upper wings green and the underside all the colours of rainbow. His eyes widened and an expression of rapture passed on across his features. I smiled again. He locked eyes with me, to share the wonder.

The voices of the others behind us broke the moment. I gritted my teeth. We shared a last glance and, like one man, we stared ahead of us. Frustration chafed me. I cast my thoughts back on my retinue. Bright Jade and Chien worried me, if for different reasons. I sighed. Nothing could be done about it.

So passed most of the morning, walking at a too sedate pace and looking straight ahead, trying to ignore the prinking  of the Jungle surrounding us. Our retinues was silent, too, I think from the heat and the fear of the Forest Jungle. When the sun was almost overhead above us, Tay, the Aspyrgend, brought his horse on level with me. The Prophet turned toward him, and perhaps I alone could sense the curiosity in his looking at the Kham. Tay inclined his head toward me.

"Demmet, I go, to advise the Free People of our coming." He spoke the language of the Khams to me, and it sounded like the leaves in the wind or the streams between rocks. I nodded at him and watched with desire as he left the road to disappear among the foliage. I sighed.

"He didn't call you Chihn." I turned to the Prophet, surprised. "No. He calls me as the Khams do. Demmet."

He nodded slowly, his dark gaze, so akin as to mine as to be unsettling, seemed to pierce me. He opened the his mouth to speak, and then shut it. A pained looks crossed his eyes and he averted them from mine. Confused, I gave heels to Toiden. He flicked his ears. He was hot, he was bored, and he wanted to either run or stop. I patted his neck, reassuring him that soon he would rest.

"Tay is the Aspyrgend. He is... an ambassador you may say. He is one of the Khams who have bonded with domestic animals. They make a People all of themselves, but some of the other People don't accept them." I continued, to dissipate my unease. It was an approved topic do to related to the Prophet. Even if our retinues would hear, as they surely would, nobody would question the reason for my giving him this information. "They solved it, in the Khams' fashion." I looked at him. "They fought over it, and the Human People won.," I specified. He nodded again and frowned. I waited for him to speak, but he didn't. We resumed our travel.

I was relieved when Vien speeded his mare up to a trot, passing beyond me and the Prophet. He stopped on the center of the road and nodded to somebody behind me. I stopped Toiden as well, and watched as the people made a hasty, temporary camp. Then I dismounted.

The people in my retinue had already arranged themselves between those who would come and those who wouldn't. I had been able to avoid bringing servants with me, as untrained people in the Jungle are nothing but a liability. Chyne and Gao and me, we would go to the Trees. Chyne and I were well schooled in the way of the Jungle, and Gao was Witted. No Khams would raise hand or paw or talons upon to him. I quested toward Snowcloud, but I felt only her acknowledgement of me and that she was near. I elaborately bade her my greetings and she answered with an a formless annoyance at my brashness. I chuckled.

Vien appeared at my side, and looked at me. I looked back at him. His headdress was crooked, and his clothes, too hot for the weather, slightly rumpled. I sighed.

"Tell me what is going wrong."

The corner of his lips twitched and he cleared his throat, putting his hands in his sleeves.

"The Prophet's retinue... You should come to see it, my liege."

The careful neutrality of his tone didn't fool me a moment. I walked toward the place where the White Monks had stopped, aside from my people. I had never been able to understand them. They spent their lives studying the White Prophecies, a behavior that I have come to consider as useful as combing caterpillars, since most of the White Prophecies make no sense to the Prophets themselves. Some of them, notably the ones who cater for the White Inns, are worldly enough to understand that it is but very rarely that "as the Prophet spake, so 'twas," as the Ancient Scrolls seem to imply. But for the Behit's Monks, that is the Truth. They couldn't think to disobey the Prophet more than they could think of a World in which things fall up instead of down. At the same time, they insist on a web of rituals and ceremonies so complex that when I first came to Clerres, I thought in good conscience that the whole land was mad. Time had done little to revert my initial assessment.

I came whither the Prophet was and found him speaking with an ancient, withered monk. He looked so much like a monkey, one of the small, grey animals that ran squealing and crying through the upper canopy, that for a moment I wondered if he wasn't Khams. But he had the light orange cassock of the White Monks, and as them, he was bald. His body had been shrunk by age, but he had probably never been a tall or strong man. His legs were crooked, and the robe didn't hide his skinny calves. He had a short, stout walking stick in his hand, and sandals on his feet. At a glance, he was dressed far more sensibly than many other monks, who sweated as they were in heavy and complex robes of fair design. His face and head were so covered with wrinkles that it was hard to gage his expression, but his dark eyes looked at the Prophet with neither fear nor submission, rather, he looked impish and fond at once; an expression that reminded me of the Fool more than anything else. I stopped and regarded them. The Prophet was bowed to hear what the small monk had to say, and the monk was making wide gestures with his walking stick toward to other monks. I suspected the retinues thought they were discussing plans. If the fey glint of mischief I saw in the Prophet's eyes was any indication though, I suspected they were instead mocking the whole lot of the present people.

I made a sound and the Prophet stood up as if I had hit him, and turned to me. The glint in his gaze disappeared and the smile on my lips died off away. For a moment, he had looked like my Fool. A weight fell again on my chest. I bowed.

"King Chihn, I was talking with Gombochab, the Prior, about our retinue." I raised my eyes and studied the old monk, who looked back at me with such cunning that I shifted my feet and had to avert my gaze. Then I felt my jaw dropping.

"This, this is your retinue? The whole of it?" I questioned, incredulous. He nodded and frowned. "Yes. The tradition claims that most of the monks..."

"Your Wisdom, might I speak with thee in private?" The airiness of my voice must have alarmed him, for he nodded and looked at Gombochab, who aimed away after having looked at me for a second. I shifted again. I looked around. People coming in and by, talking, and preparing. I bit my lips. It wouldn't do. I gestured at the Prophet to follow me and went beyond the road, to hide behind a big tree some feet into the jungle. He followed me. I turned toward him. Without wishing to, I fell back to the words and rhythms of our shared youth, the language of the Seven Duchies.

"Are you mad? All those people... They know nothing of the Jungle."

His eyes widened from the shock. Then he scowled. "You think the travel will be dangerous?"

I shook my head. " No more than any other journey into the Jungle. And that means that yes, it is going to be dangerous. Of my retinue, only Chyne, Gao and I will go."

He inclined his head, his dark, fine hair cascading over his slim shoulders. He shooed away some insistent flies. "Not even Vien?"

"No. The Khams are... uneasy with Huans. I thought wiser not to push our luck."

He nodded and worried his lip with his teeth. Then sighed. "The tradition..."

I shrugged. "You are the Prophet. Tell them they can't come. They will only put themselves in danger, and us as well."

He arched his brows. "Oh yes, I forgot I couldn't make mistakes."

I blinked and watched him, without understanding. His lips were thinned and his eyes troubled. "What are you talking about?"

He averted his gaze from mine. "That boy. Ghuozi."

I paused and clenched my fist. I tried to gulp down air, but I found none. I felt like I was suffocating. My mouth was parched all at once. "You think I gave the order to kill him." It wasn't a question. I wished for it to be.

When he answered, he did so looking at an orchid behind my shoulder. "Isn't that the punishment for the crime of doubting the Prophet? Isn't it a fitting one, King Chihn?" His tone was fey and dancing, his musical voice finding a pitch I had never heard from a human. A flash of pain from my still healing nails forced me to uncurl my hands. My anger surged at the idea that this man, who should know me better than any other, would accuse me. I took a breath and managed to hold my temper. I made a step in his direction, careful and considerate. Again, his eyes widened that I would breach his space so, but I was past caring.

"He lives. I fed him poison, so that he would look dead, and gave him back to his family. They will bring him to Liantharin. What then, is for the boy to decide." I was speaking low. If his voice was fey, mine was a growl deep in my throat. I kept my eyes locked with his, despite his shock and my anger. We were almost touching, our chests brushing at every breath. "Did you really think that I would do it?" I replied, and laughed. I had never known that anger and despair could make a man laugh. It was not a pleasant sound. I stepped back. "I once wondered if I ever knew you. Now I wonder if you ever knew me," I said, slowly. I didn't wait for his answering look or words nor for him to go past the shock and turned my back on him. "Bring a servant if you truly need him, but nobody else. The Jungle is no place for the unwary." I spoke over my shoulder, and then strode back among to the others.

The shadows had not changed on the ground and I already counted myself a fool, to have spoken thusly at to the Prophet. I sighed. What was done was done. I went to Vien, who stood close to Toiden with a backpack in his hands. He looked worriedly at the Jungle, his brow furrowed.

"It is necessary, Vien." I met his eyes. "I entrust Prince Chien to you. Take care of him."

He nodded and bit his lips, handing me the backpack, the same I used in the mountain. I took it and swung it over my shoulder. Then he passed me my battle-axe, frowning at it. Vien doesn't like my choice of weapon, another one done to flaunt my alien origin, as were the dark colours of my clothing. Battle-axes aren't the weapon of choice of the nobility of Clerres. As there is no need for a bow in the Jungle, the trees being too close together to allow a good range, I didn't take one.

Chyne and Gao came up behind me. I turned my head. They were both dressed in robust cotton and had their own backpacks slung over their shoulders. Chyne had tied the charms against insects into her hair, and the wooden beads looked well among the chestnut strands. Gao's and mine were around our necks, and some spare in the backpacks. Bugs are by far the greatest annoyance in the Wild Forest, and sometimes more than that. I nodded at them and checked the boy. He looked ill at ease, and I frowned.

"What is it, Gao? If you don't feel well, tell me. We can't bring sickly people with us."

The boy shook his head and bit his lips. "No, my King. It is just... People in the kitchen say the Khams could eat me. And that they kill everything and everybody." His blue-green eyes looked huge in his childish face. I debate with myself if it was wise to bring him at all. He had the Wit, and the Khams could teach him better than I ever could. But was his culture and the one of the Jungle People compatible?

"No, Gao. They won't eat you. You are a child and have the Siòng. No Khams would touch you." He was, I added privately, probably the only one of us they would never harm. Yet, as I watched him I could feel something, pressing into the back of myself. A whiff of something I couldn't name, nor explain. It felt as if someone had spoken words aloud to me and I but echoed them. "But it is best if you stay with the little Prince. He will need all the friendly faces that he can find." A mixture of disappointment and relief washed over Gao's features. I exchanged a glance with Vien, silently handing him the boy. The barest of nods from him showed me he had understood.

"Well, I am going to come. Not for the first time, if I may add. The Khams are as interested in me as I in them." She Chyne said, nibbling a travel-ration. People all around where eating lightly, for the heat didn't invite a heavy meal. I was not hungry. I tousled Gao's hair and turned my back to my Huan and the child, to walk toward the curve of the road where we would meet our convoy. I could feel the discontent washing over the Prophet's retinue, and I breathed a sigh of relief. He had heeded my advice. But my jaw dropped again when I noticed the small, elderly monk with a backpack on his shoulders and a smile on his withered face. No. It couldn't be that the Prophet had chosen that little man. He couldn't have. I gestured at Chyne to stay where she was and she nodded, looking with curiosity at the monk. I walked toward him. The Prophet was not yet present, and in the curve of the road, waiting for the Khams, there were only the three of us. The rest of the retinues, with Chien, were far back on the path. I cleared my throat and the old man bowed to me.

"King Chihn, may you have peace and prosperity." Even his voice was frail. That man could not come with us.

"And to you, Venerable Gombochab. You -ah..."

He smiled at me, a smile no less bright for the lack of teeth. "Yes, Your Majesty, I am going to come with you." He rapped the walking stick on the ground and continued. "Beloved didn't want me to, but the child needs to be reminded of who is the elder here. I told the rapscallion I would come, with or without his approval." He smiled at my dumbfounded expression. "I must thank you, Your Majesty. I was happy when he was back."

I looked at him blankly, more than shocked by the idea that the Prophet had spoken to him of me. Then the truth dawned. "You are one of his teachers. When he was a child." The shock on my face was plain to see. He shook his bald head, the spotted surface reflecting the light of the sun oddly.

"No. I was a novice when he was in the Mountains." His eyes took on the far-away look of the elderly when they remember the past. "He was mischievous and alone. He missed his family terribly, and to that I could relate. I had been sent to become a monk, for I had a good memory, but I was a child as well and I had been accepted only a few moons before his arrival. All were talking about that White born out of his Age. They talked of him like you could talk of a two-headed calf!" He snorted. "So I was curious of him. But when he came, he was but a child with pale skin and wide, colourless eyes that looked at everything and everyone, an impish smile and a penchant for putting himself in trouble. Oh, he was a Prophet, all right. What prophecies did he tell! I do think he invented some, by the way. But when he was alone he also played with a ceramic doll his parents had made for him." He looked at me, seriously. "A white doll, as white as he."

I felt something prickle in the back of my eyes. The doll. The Fool's doll. The one destroyed by Regal's men.

"I... know of that doll." I glanced at the Jungle. Suddenly, I didn't want the Khams to come.

He shook his head. "What they did to him... It was horrid. And I let them and did nothing." The old man closed his eyes with a pained expression. "I did help him escape , for what it is worth. And when he came back, he remembered of me."

I looked at him expectantly. Yet it was clear that the monk had no intention of expanding on his words. He rapped the ground again **.** Then I had an idea. Perhaps I could take out of this chatty monk what I couldn't take out of the Prophet himself. I thought furiously on how to breach the topic. I have found that, to convince somebody to share his own experiences, the best way is often to mention a personal anecdote, for the perception of an openness tend tends to invite the same. I smiled pleasantly at the old monk.  

"I am glad he had somebody to confide in. He had been too alone, for too long. And changes are never easy, to pass from being consider an oddity to being the White Prophet... It doesn't look like he sleeps well at night." I paused, trying to hide my wildly beating heart and modulated my voice to a lower note. "I too have nightmares, now that I am King of Vietmar. About being unworthy of the task. The last one was before the Seventh Year Meditation. It was my first time as a King, and I feared I would do something wrong, since I am a barbarian still. And I know how little he likes the cold." I invited, with a small smile, for him to share in the conversation. Then I waited, holding my breath.

Gombochab nodded. "That is true, Your Majesty. He still has weird dreams. For example, some time before his retirement in the mountain he told me he had dreamt of white wolves and of a beloved voice telling him that they would be reunited again." He clicked his tongue over the roof of his mouth, unaware of the deep lurch my heart had given at his words.

He who was once my friend was the Prophet still, even if he didn't know of it. This was all the proof I needed. My mind raced furiously at the implication of it. I knew he must have felt we would meet again. I was but a human with the occasional glimpse of the times ahead. He was a true heir of the Whites. Before I could speak again a voice startled me.

"Will we have to wait for long?" I turned my head. The Prophet was coming. He had changed into an attire of robust cotton, plain and without beads or embroidery, but of a colour more cream than white. His eyes avoided mine and I noticed a smudge of dirt, not unlike moss, on his dark forehead. It was so rare to see him stained in any way that the sight surprised me.

I shook my head at his words.

"No, I don't think so. They will come soon."

I had just finished speaking, when a howling startled us. I noticed how the Prophet did not jump to his feet as the rest of the retinues did, and felt pride.

I looked at the Jungle. A big, gray wolf padded silently toward us, lambent yellow eyes glinting in the sunlight. Snowcloud, white as the snow she is named after, moved shoulder to shoulder with him, bouncing lively as a spring stream. She sent me a wordless acknowledgment tinged with love. I didn't bother trying to feel him or the others of the Pack with my Wit; they could hide far better than I could find them.

Keala sat on his haunches just inside the White Road and looked at the Prophet. The Prophet looked back at him, frank and curious, and then he looked all around. He frowned.

"Prophet, this is Keala, leader of the Free People's Pack. He will be our guide." My words echoed in the eerie silence. I noticed that no one was speaking nor moving.

"Where is his human companion?" He asked me, confused. I shook my head.

"There is no other. This is Keala. He is both human and wolf. For this is the way of the Khams." It was my turn to be confused. Had he not read my words?

While what I said sank into him, Keala stepped forwards. His eyes had the cunning of human and wolf alike. The Prophet gulped and then bowed. Keala, as was the wont for meeting a Nguoi'Yeu, bowed his massive head.

I felt something prickle in the back of myself and shuddered without knowing why. Keala lowered his head, then turned on his haunches and went into the Forest Jungle. Snowcloud walked toward me as I followed him and I petted her under her throat, welcoming her back with my mind and heart. She whined and pressed against my thigh.

So we went into the Jungle, leaving what Clerres would call "civilization" behind us. I did not look back.


	7. Panther

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Ipoeia for her help, and to Sand Dun for his continuing encouragment.
> 
> Of course, I wouldn't be able to go on without Andromeda Aires comments and good points. Thank you. :* I have dedicated this to you^^
> 
> Thanks for everybody who follows this. I hope you will leave a comment for me^^ They really make my day.

 

** Chapter Six: Panther **

 

_And then Partha looked into White Khome's eyes, and shook her head. With tears in her eyes, she refused to follow his words, for White Khome had asked her beyond and above what she could give._

_So White Khome knew he had lost, for he had not been able to do his akhel, and he grieved._

                                                                             Unknown Author, scroll found in the back of a cupboard in the White Temple

_And then Partha looked into White Khome's eyes, and shook her head. With tears in her eyes, she refused to follow his words, for White Khome had asked her beyond and above what she could give._

_So White Khome had to trick her into following his wishes, and thusly he saved the World._

Scribe Athmar of Clerres, Main Archives

of the White Temple

 

We walked in a rough formation, Keala in front, choosing a easy way - or as easy as a path can be in the Jungle - me and Snowcloud behind him, then the Prophet and Gombochab, and Chyne last. We walked in the Middle Jungle, the canopy so far above us that it could well be that the sky had gone green; the airy foliage casting a pleasant light shade. Birds chirped in the distance and, from time to time, a monkey screamed its call. A thousand smells swirled in the air; green and leafy from the plant, sharp and pungent from the flower that hung midair, like like festoons in a myriad of colours. The air itself was hot and heavy, and it made breathing it almost a chore in itself.

My eyes, ears and Wit were keen, and so were Snowcloud's. I could sometimes dimly perceive the rest of Keala's pack, for the Free People live mostly in packs, moving around us.  That I could do so at all gratified me. My grasp of my beast-magic was growing.

_You are still painfully behind, brother mine._ I smiled at Snowcloud's jest.

_I think I'll always be, sister. I am no Kham. But I am improving._

She snorted at me and shook her head.

Yet in the symphony of life all around me, I could not hear a note. I turned my head, slightly. As I often do when in the Jungle, I had lost all sense of time. I fixed my eyes on the Prophet, who was walking at a brisk pace and regarding everything with an eager interest.

_Can you feel him, Demmet?_ Keala's words startled me, and I almost fell over a root. I blinked and looked at him. He hadn't turned to speak to me.

_No. I never could. I told you already._ I could perceive his mental snort. An uneasiness overcame me. Once I'd learned how powerful the Siòng can be, I had thought that perhaps a fully trained Kham would have been able to feel the Prophet. I had started to think of it as a lack on my part more than a difference in him. But Keala was strong in the Wit, and could feel nothing from him.

_A most peculiar creature. I pity him. No Siòng, no scent. He doesn't belong nor he does he leave tracks._

I eyed with surprised the grey wolf's shoulders.

_I had thought you would have found it an useful trait._ Again, Keala snorted at me and jumped over a fallen, half rotten trunk, so bright with life from the thousands of small insects, that it could very well be alight. I paused to savor the sight. It was not unlike a starry night.

_Useful, yes. As death is useful. It is more of use to others than to him._

I frowned. Keala, akin to the other Khams' leaders, sometime spoke too much like the Prophets for my liking.

_A pity you two can't speak to each other. You would do well enough together._ I replied, piqued.

We were walking side by side, now. He turned his big head to regard me.

_Think of what you learnt from us, Demmet. The Siòng connects us all to one anothe,; a connection shattered by death. Shattered, but not destroyed, for life goes on even when the individual has stopped being. Our Siòng is how our spirit sings to us and with the others in the World. So here we belong. Our scent is how our body does the same. He leave no track and can't be felt by us, so he leaves no mark upon the very World he walk on. He does not belong. It is as our stories tell us: others leave their tracks for him. Now I understand why you gave so much honor to him and claimed yourself as his People._

I stiffened, and I would have spoken, I think, had not a noise from behind us made me turn my head. Chyne had passed by the Prophet and Gombochab, and was approaching us. I let myself fall back from the wolfman, leaving to him the vanguard. I think he felt, in my abrupt closing of our conversation, how his words had chafed me, for his ears flickered and his gleaming, lambent eyes gazed upon me for a second.

_For what it is worth, I agree with you, brother mine._

I looked surprised at Snowcloud. Her fur as white as her name was a stark contrast against the earthier colours of the Jungle.

"Father. I need to speak with you." Her voice was carefully neutral, and I passed my backpack from one shoulder to the other, and nodded at her, my mind still reeling from the conversation with Keala.

"Speak then." She bit her lips, before blurting out.

"I don't like this deviation. I don't like it at all."

I shrugged. "Streams change their courses frequently."

My daughter's expression told me how much of a dimwit she thought me in that moment. "In the dry season?"

I stopped in my tracks and had to forcefully restrain myself from either cursing out loud or smacking my palm against my forehead, for when had it been heard that a stream could change its course without any additional water in it? And there had been no heavy rain in months. I almost swore. I had been so distracted by it all, that I had not noticed the trap I was walking in.

"My thoughts, precisely," She she retorted, nudging me to walk on and smiling over her shoulders to a, I suppose, surprised Prophet and monk.

I resumed walking, thinking furiously. " Why would the Khams..." She shook her head, and frowned at me, so much like her father that I was brought, for a moment, from the heavy, hot jungle to the cold stone room of my youthful training. I swallowed.

"I don't think the Khams have lied, Father. It is a too easy lie to unravel. This smells of Man's cunning."

I breathed out. "The Khams are humans. Half of them."It is something that I notice myself pointing out often enough. She nodded, avoiding a low hanging branch and I felt an odd pride at her agility in the Jungle, even if she isn't Witted.

"Yes. And then again, no. They are humans, Father, but sometimes they are not Man. No Khams would think of changing streams to trick one's enemy into walking a certain path. But a Man would. And this is what I think is happening."

I watched her, and the sense of her words trickled into me like iced water. I breathed in and out. "We have no proof of it. It could well be natural. A freak thawing of the ice up in the glaciers, perhaps." She nodded at this and smiled at me.

"Or it could not. Once, a wise man told me that when you spring to an idea, and decide it is truth, without evidence, you blind yourself to other possibilities, and to always consider them all. Let's consider both the thawing and the Man's hand, shan't we?" She grinned and winked at me.

The danger of teaching your children all you know is that they may learn. Snowcloud wagged her tail proudly and looked at Chyne with evident satisfaction.

"In this case, it is better if you stay in the rearguard. Be ready, Chyne." She nodded again and went back to her place.

_Well, our cub is grown._ I could feel both pride and regret in my companion's voice. I glanced at her.

_She is. I don't like the possibilities she opened, sister._

_We will fight if there is to be a fight, brother mine._

I breathed out and shook my head, looking at Snowcloud. I tried not to think about Chyne's distinction between humans and Man, and focused on her words. If what she said was true, then somebody was herding us toward the Panther People. I had my score of enemies, and so, as I knew, did the Prophet. Had somebody else already decided, so close to their previous failed attempt, to try again to take his life? I glanced behind me and noticed him walking step to step with the ancient monk, who showed a remarkable stamina for a man of his age. I glanced at them both, and not for the first time I wondered how old the Prophet truly was.

But then again, I also don't show my sixty-seven years.

I waited till Gombochab and the Prophet were level with me and cleared my throat, eyeing one, then the other. They halted. Gombochab looked at me, as shrewd as my grandfather, and without a word went to the rearguard with Chyne, who greeted him with a smile. I had an odd feeling of dread seeing them together, and the precise sense that they could make a heap of trouble. I dismissed it. Chyne was not even nineteen and Gombochab well past eighty. He would probably bore her to tears with a tale of his youth. I turned toward the Prophet and started walking again. Snowcloud insistently thrust herself betwixt him and me. I looked at her oddly, but she was watching the Prophet with a look I couldn't place.

"Do you have any enemies?" As soon as the words left my lips, I knew they were the wrong ones. Of course he had enemies. I had fought them not two moons before. He looked at me oddly. His dark complexion mingled well with the background; with the burnished colours of the earth, covered by fallen leaves in all the shades of auburn, and the wooden shades of the trunks themselves. If he stood still and let the light flickered on him, it was hard to distinguish him from all other parts of the Jungle.

"Well, I seem to recall a couple of attempts on my life, now that you remind me. The last one forty days ago," he replied, airily. I couldn't help but smile.

"There is a possibility that somebody is trying to herd us toward one of my enemies' grounds. The Panther People have grounds to hate me. And they do. We will have to pass close by them," I explained to him. He frowned.

"I am not going to ask you if you have enemies, since that would be a rather dull question to ask any king." Or prophets, his eyes said. "I suppose there is no other path?" I shrugged.

"Keala hasn't told me of one. This is the hunting ground of the Free People. I suppose he would know, if there was another way you could be able to make." He raised an eyebrow, but made no comment.

"And you trust him." I blinked at his slow words. They were, and were not, a question.

"Keala? I trust him not to lead us into danger, yes." He nodded and frowned. He didn't speak anymore, and I distracted myself by attempting again to perceive the Free People around us. I glanced at him. Snowcloud may have spoken in jest to me, but I had to tell him about how I had made him Nguoi'Yeu and claimed him as my People. Bu he spoke before me, and his words caught me by surprise. "What kind of creature is he?"

I turned my head toward him, Snowcloud still walking between us. "When... a Khams is chosen to become leader of one of the People, he leaves behind one of his bodies, and becomes one with his bond-companion." I explained, slowly. "Keala chose to let his human body die, and the human conscience went into the wolf body, becoming one with it." I bit my lips. I didn't judge the Khams for their custom, yet I couldn't very well accept this. From the Prophet's bearing, my feeling weren't only my own. "They blend into one, or so I am told," I added. I shrugged off my ill ease.

He regarded me with a deep look I could not decipher. His forehead was still dirty. Without thinking, I extended my hand to clean it.

Snowcloud's jump and her growl startled me. I backed away and tripped over a protruding root. I watched her with sheer shock. Even Chyne, Gombochab and Keala had halted their march.

_I don't like you going close to him. Don't touch him!_

Uncomprehending, I watched Snowcloud stupidly. Her teeth were bared and her fur bristled. She was growling, a low sound that seemed to reverberate with the very earth. I blinked. _What..._

_He hurt you. I am not going to allow him to do so again. Tell him I said so. He can't hurt you._

My heart hammered in my throat. I rose to my feet and looked at Snowcloud, then at the Prophet. His expression as he regarded my companion was of shock mixed with such a pain that I had to close my eyes. I once may have yielded to my companion, but Snowcloud and I were not Keala, nor Nightseye and I. I squared my shoulders and raised a hand to ask for an extended rest.

_Sister, he did hurt me. But so you are doing, now._

_I do not understand. He is your mate. Yet he refuses you and more than once. But you don't refuse him._

_He is not my mate, and I can't refuse him any more than I can refuse you. Do you want to be like the mother of my cub?_

The words gave her pause. Molly's lack of understanding of my bond with Snowcloud had been not the last of the causes of my falling out with her. Her bearing softened and she turned her gaze from the Prophet to me. I opened my soul to her and she whined softly, and put her tail betwixt her legs. I knelt and scratched her between her ears, heedless of the others still around us.

_Sister, sister... I love you, too._ She lapped my face, and I smiled.

_Tell him that, if he hurts you again, I'll bite his head off. Even if he has a marvelous fur._

I couldn't help but laugh. I raised myself again and regarded the Prophet. He still looked stricken, but the heart-wrenching pain was hidden from his features. Others may not have seen it at all, but I knew how well he could hide himself.

"She... wanted to protect me." I said, quietly, so that only us three could hear it. I saw his throat moving as he swallowed and his eyelids fluttered to cover his gaze. I do not know what expression he hid behind them.

_You are forgetting a part, Changer._

I groaned. "She also says that if you hurt me again she will bite your head off. Even if you have a marvelous fur. Her words, not mine."

He didn't catch the jest. When he spoke, he did so in a soft, calm voice, his eyes still closed. "If I ever hurt you again, I'll offer her my neck to bite." He turned abruptly and started to walk once more.

We resumed our trek. No one spoke of this confrontation, not ever again, but I could feel that we gave all the members of our little expedition many reasons to ponder.

We walked. Time in the rainforest is not as time outside of it. The light is everywhere at once, till the moment it isn't. There is no twilight, nor any preamble to the Night. My thoughts were a jumble so intricate that Snowcloud distanced herself from me quite firmly. I sighed and glanced at the Prophet, but he was looking at his feet, lost in his mind.

 I almost tripped over Keala when he stopped.

I glanced at him and tensed, my hand going to my battle-axe immediately. Every hackle on his body was raised, his lips had retreated over his teeth and his ears pointed backward. He lowered his head a little between his shoulders. He made no sounds, not even a growl. I glanced at my companion. Snowcloud stood shock-still, one paw raised and her nose up in the air, sniffing.

Silent as the light she is named after, Chyne came to my side, and gazed from Keala to Snowcloud. A sparkle of understanding passed through her eyes and she nodded at me. She went back swiftly to the monk and the Prophet, hushing them without words. All this took less than the time to describe it.

When Snowcloud called to me, her voice was a whisper, not to be heard from any in the Wit.

_There is smell of fresh death, Changer. Death, but no blood._

I frowned and took a quick look at Keala. He moved, dainty as a dancer, and Snowcloud followed him, silent and fleet. Soon they disappeared between two ferns, without so much as a ripple in the vegetation. Slowly and without any sound, I unlaced my battle-axe. Then I waited, expanding my Wit to the limit. I couldn't feel Keala, who had hid from me, but Snowcloud was a faint presence ahead. The air was hot and humid and now that we had stopped moving, the dead air of the afternoon fell upon us. Not a leaf stirred in the calidity.

I almost jumped out of my skin when Snowcloud's words reached me.

_Changer. Come._

I did, moving with far less grace than they. Ten paces beyond the ferns there was a small clearing under the shade of a huge tualag-tree. In the clearing, there were four bodies. Corpses. I clenched my jaw and walked toward them. I have often seen death. Once, my own. As I walked, I felt the old teachings of my assassin mentor, Chade, as if he was beside me, telling me what to do. I moved among the dead, inspecting them. A man, and a woman, dressed in the Khams' garb. I frowned and knelt close by. I touched the woman's arm and my fingers came back wet. I passed my palm over her skin. It was humid all over, but not from sweat. I glanced at the other two corpses. Two wolves, healthy beasts at a glance, and certainly lively and strong not long ago. I touched them. Their fur was wet as well. I looked around, but there was no sign of any streams, nor any body of water. I forced myself to study the faces of the Khams. Both had the dark skin and black hairs of their people and they probably had not seen the whole of my years between them. The woman had been beautiful once, but now her lineaments were contorted in a mask of fear. Her eyes were glossy. A bloodied froth was in the angle of her mouth. I glanced at one of the wolves and delicately raised his lips, finding the same sign. Quietly, I turned the man on his belly and pressed between his shoulder blades. Dribbles of water trickled out of his mouth. I thinned my lips.

"They have been drowned." The sound of my own voice was startlingly loud in the silence. Keala growled and Snowcloud looked at me, her tail curled over her fore paws.

"You are indeed good at this, your Majesty." This time, I did jump and whirled towards the sound. I had been so concentrated on analyzing the bodies, I had not perceived them coming.

The Prophet looked at the corpses with a sober expression. Chyne was behind him, and scowling. Gombochab leaned over his walking stick and regarded me with gravity.

"I have learnt much in my years, venerable Gombochab.," I shoot back and turned toward Keala, who was sniffing around and growling. The contrast with the silent Snowcloud was eerie.

_Sister?_

_It is of no use to sniff around, brother mine. Whoever did this, is not here._

I nodded at that. _But was here not long ago. An hour, perhaps two. No more._

She shook her head. _I smell none. Water is everywhere in the Jungle. It doesn't leave tracks._

"This is not Khams' doing. Or," I ameliorate, " it is not only Khams' doing. Some Khams had to be there, or all the Jungle would have heard their death-cry."

Keala growled again and turned his head to us. His lips were still retracted over his teeth and his heavy flank heaved.

_Four of my People died today. I shall take revenge upon them, Demmet. But you are right. This is mixed work, of Khams and strangers. And we do know whose work it is. The Panther People are hunting us, in our own ground again!_ He snapped his jw jaws with a sound of a trap closing. I said nothing and rubbed my forehead. I was not sure it was Panther People doing. Keala's preconception blinded him. I glanced at the Prophet and then at Chyne. She looked back at me unflinchingly. I am sure both of them had already worked out what I was going to say.

"Whoever did this is still close. We shall have to be even more careful." I talked to all of them, but my eyes were fixed on the Prophet. He nodded grimly. Nobody asked if I was sure we were the reasons for their death. It was painfully obvious. This was not the usual killing of the Khams. The bodies would then be at least partially eaten, and killed with visible wounds. Such strange deaths and our presence had to be linked. But I could not see how.

"Why kill them? Why not us?" The Prophet's voice was slow, and quiet. I blinked at him. He was not looking at me. He stared at the corpses, but his gaze seemed to go farther than that. He blinked his eyes a number of times, then he drew a ragged breath before he turned back to me. He seemed to be returning from a far journey. I had seen him like this twice before, once as myself on a hill, holding a son that was and wasn't mine, and once in my grandfather's body, when my Skill took me to him in my dreams. I held my breath, expecting and aching for words from my Dhil'a, but he shrugged ruefully and shook his head and blinked again, like he had been daydreaming. I bit my lips.

"Perhaps they saw something they shouldn't have seen. Or perhaps they wanted to delay us, not to kill us." I tried to gage the time. The light was dilated, but dimming slightly. I eyed Keala, still sniffing around.

_Let me talk with him, brother mine._

Snowcloud rose on her paws and went to Keala. He growled and snapped her his jaws at her. She whined. I know not what they said to each other, but  a little time later, we were walking again. Gombochab and the Prophet glanced back, but Chyne put her hand on the old monk's forearm.

"It is the Khams' way. Let Leave them here, to become part with of the Jungle once more," she explained, slowly.

So we kept walking, knowing of the unseen stalkers on our trail. It was not a pleasant knowledge.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot is thinkening :D Ehehehehe...


	8. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooo! Soon there will be a new book about Fitz&Fool! :D :D
> 
> I am half excited and half scared xD The Fool's Assassin has a good ring as title!
> 
> As always, my thanks to my betas, Sand Dun and Ipoeia, and to Andromeda Aires for her comments and support! ^___^

**_ Interlude _ **

 

_The young man watches the campfire, from above._

_The day is luscious, the fullness of the late autumn shining in all life around him. In the vast, undulating steppes, life shines in the outer sense of the young man. His gray-blue eyes looks at the bursting people in the busy camp, some hundreds of feet in front and down him. They haven't seen him. But then, he doesn't wish to be seen._

_It is not his people. Those he left behind two winters ago, after bringing them to safety beyond the Ice Mountain reaches. These are the first human being he sees in the selfsame time. He is hidden behind a giant conifer, an as still as the big tree itself._

_He watches, but he doesn't move._

_"You should go to them, if you so wish."_

_Flint doesn't move, but his back muscles ripple like the lake under a breeze. A puff of air escapes his lips. He doesn't speak._

_A deep growl, not menace but assertion, makes itself heard. Neither the newcomer nor Flint seems to heed it, but the straw-coloured head of the young man jerks to the side, almost reflectively._

_The second youth's feet make no noise as he creeps closer to Flint. He is not as tall as him, the top of his head reaching only the chin of the taller man and he is long limbed and graceful. His hair flows over shoulders, sleek and fine, the colour of pale gray, almost the same one of his skin, and of the eyes that watch Flint's profile without expression. There is no trace of childhood in the fine, austere features of the gray youth made of smooth planes and straight lines._

_"I can't go anywhere. No-one will accept me like this."_

_The young man turns. His right cheek's skin is red, corrugated and burnt. His right eye seems bigger than the left, and the side of his mouth curls in a perpetual grin. Vanyel regards Flint evenly, and waits. The wind plays with their hair. Vanyel watches and for a moment his eyes become as clear and as empty as the high sky above them._

_He turns so abruptly that Whiteclaw, behind them, startles and growl. The White youth gives him a clipped smile as apology._

_"Come on. I tire of this conversation." Vanyel pauses before adding, his back to Flint. "Lets go back home."_

_Flint keeps his watch for some more second. A young woman of not even twenty summer is working on a hide. She has shining black hair and she moves almost as nimble as the White. Flint watches her, unseen._

_Then he turns and follows Vanyel._

 

___________

 

_The tent is circular, a half-ball lying in a small patches of woodland in the steppes, near a stream. It covered with grasses and moss, as to make it invisible from the outside. The full hides a bison covers it. The trees, tall pines and conifers, all around helps both in hiding and in shielding from the elements._

_Outside, Flint is kneeling in front of a small fire, blowing over it. Vanyel watches him, clear gray eyes, almost colourless still, looks at the back and feet of his Dhil'a. For a moment, his expression becomes unguarded and predatory, almost hungry. Then the White boy closes his eyes and turns his head aside, exhaling._

_"I can't get used at living outside caves. Even if the winters are warm, it always feel strange." Vanyel smiles a little at Flint's comment and looks at the horizon, far away._

_"It is because you are not used at made dwelling, Dhil'a. I for myself, am happy to be in a less constricting environment."_

_Flint smiles and makes a sound not unlike a puff. Vanyel sit besides him, his knees up to his chest, and helps him. They work in the silence of the long acquaintance, preparing and moving as one. They eat, too, in silence, punctuated by the birds above, and the crunching of bones by Whiteclaw strong jaw._

_When the meal is consumed, Vanyel flips his spoon towards a high tree. Among the branches, like strange fruits, bundles hang._

_"We have much of what we need, but I saw some bison on the plains whence the sun rises." His melodic voice sounds almost casual. Flint smirks and regards him fondly._

_"I know your liking for bison's meat, Dhil'amin. Very well, I shall do and see if I can catch some calf unaware. They are at the fattest in this moon." Flint looks fondly at Vanyel. "It is a wonder that such a good aimer as you are is not a good hunter, as well."_

_Vanyel's eyebrows shoot up. "I can hunt."_

_"Rabbits and hamsters." There is teasing in Flint's words. Vanyel throws his spoon at him. Flint ducks and laughs, tackling the slimmer boy. He doesn't notice the flash of agony in Vanyel's eyes, here only a moment, and gone the next. And he doesn't feel how his struggling is less serious than usual, almost an embrace._

 

_______

 

_Flint is watching the herd, crunching among the tall grasses, as still and quiet as Whiteclaw next to him. The sky is overcast, heavy clouds hanging overhead. Gray-blue eyes and gleaming yellow ones scrutinize the beasts, searching for the right one, the one already slightly aside, not too old and experienced, not hard to startle. He hunted megaloceros ten years ago. Bison-hunting alone is nothing. He knows no other way to hunt. A young female catches their gazes. Without looking at each other, the hunters creeps forward, slowly, every inch of ground keenly felt under their feet and paws. Flint corcks the javelin in the spear-thrower. Then in the same moment the youth jumps and shouts and the giant jaguar roars._

_The bison bellow and run. The scared herd thinks of nothing but getting away from the danger, fast. The stampede has begun._

_Flint spurs the young female on, and the frothy animal attempts to go back to the herd, to safety, but it finds Whiteclaw on her path. Flint turns to run forward, to intercept her, when his outer sense flares up in recognition. His scarred visage jerks abruptly and his eyes widen._

_Man._

_A second later, a startled, piercing scream is heard in the plain, above the beasts stomping feet and fretting bellows. A woman leaps like a rabbit almost in front of the bison, his and Whiteclaw intended prey. The wrong thing to do, as all who hunts know. The bison lower its head, and charges._

_Flint screams as well and run fast. He almost doesn't notice the woman -shining black hair, agile movements- fall and lay on the ground, motionless for the stomping hooves to find her. He is above her. He thrusts back his spear and hauls it._

_The javelin vibrates in the animal neck. The beast falters. Flint corcks another spear, when Whiteclaws, silent as a shadow, jumps on its neck._

_The second spear joins the first. The beast stumbles and falls on his knees. With a last bellows and some jerking movements of its legs, it dies._

_Flint pants and his broad chest is heaving. He has almost forgotten the woman, when a gasp makes him looks down._

_Two startled black eyes meet his and don't look away._

 

______

 

_Vanyel is perched on a tree. He is good at climbing. He methodically takes away some of the bundles of dried meat and preserved fat. He takes only the rich, strong travel ratio that will make a man go for a whole day. He lets them drop and follows them down the tree._

_He takes the bundles and ties them up neatly, adding them to the backpack he is preparing. Already there is a little tent, several basic fling knife-blades, ready to be further chipped, four spears and two spear-throwers, and two changes of clothing. He looks around. The camp is quiet._

_He thins his lips and close his eyes. He stands very, very still, as he is listening to the wind. Only his hands opens and closes almost convulsively. Then a shudder racks his body and he hugs himself, rocking a little back and forth. He slowly, as if every movements cause pain, took the backpack. Then he hesitates. Impulsively, he dives into the main tent, the tent he and Flint had lived for the past two years. He fell on his knees over Flint's orderly bedding and lay there, breathing in, spread over the fur that smells slightly of the taller, human youth._

_After a while, the White rises. His hands take the small pillow of fur over Flint's bedding and put it in his belt. He crawls out._

_The White takes the backpack and marches onward, his eyes fixed on the horizon, his light gray face so bloodless that he looks like a child still._

_He doesn't look back._

_The camp lays, dead and still._

 

______

 

_It is morning in the camp._

_The birds' chirping is disturbed. They have all flew away at the first scream._

_"VANYEL! VANYEL! DHIL'AMIN, WHERE ARE YOU? VANYEL!"_

_Flint darts from the camp to the stream. His movements have lost the grace of the hunter. They are frenetic, aimless. Whiteclaw jumps all around, trying to spot the scentless White._

_The human youth looks frantic, bewildered. His gray-blue eyes are lost. He sit on Vanyel's bedding, and a piece of leather catches his eyes. Over it, there are the symbols Vanyel had taught him, so long ago. He reads it. Then he pales and a roar not unlike the one of Whiteclaw shakes the calm of the morning. Flint jumps out of the dwelling, the leather letter crunched in his trembling hand._

_Anger and pain war in his eyes, but he doesn't call for half of himself anymore._

_He knows he is gone._

_Whiteclaw comes closer and nuzzles at him. Flint falls to his knees and hugs the neck of the massive animal. Whiteclaw stiffens, but allow it._

_The birds come back in the long silence that follows. Flint doesn't stir._


	9. Ants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come August there will be the new Fool&Fitz book! To prepare, me and some other friends are starting a re-reading, one book a month, starting this monday! Anybody of you wants to do it, too, we are on facebook here: https://www.facebook.com/events/267692710022123/?ref=2&ref_dashboard_filter=upcoming
> 
> As always, my thanks to my betas, Sand Dun and Ipoeia, and to Andromeda Aires for her comments and support! ^___^

** Chapter Seven: Ants **

****

_Even if the languages of Clerres are quite different, there are some remarkable similarities, suggesting a common origin. The similarity is seen more in vocabulary than in grammar. For example, the word "jewel/precious stone" is vabiel in Kizah, aenyel in the language of the tribe of the M'karg Desert and bamiel in Behit. This goes against the idea that only Behit, and perhaps Liantharin, were the original grounds of the White Prophet's teaching, and suggest a wider breach, from the very beginning. However, how to integrate this with the historical chronicles of the subsequent annexation of various countries to Clerres is a mystery not yet unraveled._

_From a student's book about the Clerres' Clerres language,_

_Author Unknown._

 

We didn't walk long. We couldn't, for night was coming and when it is night in the Jungle it is not good for the unwary to be afoot. Keala led us to a secluded spot, almost a clearing.

The great wolf turned his head to look at me with gleaming eyes in the late twilight.

Stay here and you will be safe, Demmet. My People will be on guard, tonight.

Before I could answer him he departed in the very last of the dim light of dusk with no more words for us. I watched him go and said nothing. He has his pack to care for and four deaths to mourn.

I looked around the small clearing. It was shielded by the aerial roots of a mighty banian and I understood immediately why Keala had brought us here. It was a place in which it would be difficult to be caught unaware. Yet, the roots would prevent us from lighting a fire, for fear of it spreading. I frowned and waited for a moment, aware of four pairs of eyes on me. Then I turned toward the small retinue.

"We shall camp here. There can't be fire, tonight. Keala and the Free People are going to look out for us, but it is better to be safe."

Wise choice, brother mine.

I snorted. Are  sure you feel well, Snowcloud? I could hear her barking softly, an amused sound.

I could not see if the others nodded, for the night had come down and there was not enough light to see your own hand in front of you, but nobody spoke. I could hear them searching for a place to put their rolls by touch alone. The discovery of the bodies had haunted us all, but there was no going back, not now. We had to go to the Khams' Tree. 

The night concert had begun in earnest, the insects chirping and the far away screams of monkeys, like irate people shouting, made a counterpoint to our breathing. I closed my eyes and focused on my Wit. Ever since I had been in contact with the Khams, they had been trying to teach me how to truly see with my beast-magic. The Wit can't be used to see as eyes can, for things like rocks and streams can't be perceived with it, but in a place as full of life as the Jungle, where every branch is aflame with life, it can be even more useful. I could feel the sap inside the hanging roots, and the insects and tiniest lives inside it flickering in and out of existence not unlike sparkles of a bonfire. With my eyes close closed, I put my hand on a root and and followed its growth. In little time, I had reached the limb it departed from, a stout one. I heaved, climbing slowly. Soon enough I had found two likely branches. I started to tie the hammock in silence. I took a liking for them during my travel with the Great Sail Fleet. I heard the others scamper for travel rations that can be eaten cold, but I was not hungry and took my time in setting my sleeping place.

"I can't understand why you do this, Father. You aren't Monkey-Bonded." Chyne's voice caught me unaware, and her jesting tone made me smile. She was bound up in her bedroll, and I could feel Snowcloud close to her. Gombochab, the old monk, was close by, and he was either already asleep or meditating. I couldn't feel the Prophet. For a moment, I understood Keala's uneasiness. Then I shrugged it off.

"It is safer here. You should try it," I retorted and heard her snort and Snowcloud's barking laugh.

I'll take the first guard, brother mine. Tell the cub she can have the second or third. I snorted, knowing well how Snowcloud liked her rest to be undisturbed but relegated her words to Chyne.

"I'll take the second guard, Father. Best you should sleep." I hesitated to accept her offer and took my time in tying the hammock's knots, for the second guard is the hardest. But had I told Chyne I wished to have it she would have thought I had no faith in her.

"Very well, Chyne. Tell.."

"We would like to know what you are talking about, if it isn't too much trouble, Your Majesty." I blinked at the old, amused voice and belatedly realized we had been talking in the tongue of the Six Duchies. The monk must have awoken from his slumber, or else he was simply meditating, and had heard us. I flushed, unseen in the dark, because if there is an act consider considered discourteous by all the people of the World it is to talk in a language that is not understood by all in a group.

"We had set the guard, Venerable Gombochab. Snowcloud will take first, Skillmaster Chyne the second, and I'll take third.," I replied, trying to keep the chagrin out of my voice.

"I see. Wise is your choice, Your Majesty. May you sleep soundly." I could feel him going to sleep again, or perhaps falling into contemplation.

"May all of you sleep well." The soft voice of the Prophet caught me by surprise and I blinked. Almost I had forgotten of his presence. I reflected not for the first time on the limitation of both my magics. I tried to gauge from the sound of his voice where he was, and decided he was probably between Chyne and Gombochab. I wondered if he had chosen that space for himself, or if it had been chance. Somehow, I doubted it.

I lay in my hammock and looked up; in the relative silence of the night, my mind went back to the four deaths. What could kill by water where there was no water around? had a dim, nagging feeling that I had already seen something akin to those four bodies, but no matter how much I tried, I couldn't give the feeling a place nor a time. Frustrated, I reached toward Snowcloud with my quandary.

I don't know, brother mine. We shall fight when we shall have to. As for now, I neither hear nor smell anything, save the Khams'.

I frowned. Are they near?

Very. Just at the outskirt of the trees.

I was unsure if this was ood news or a bad news.

It is news that mean that means you should sleep. Even our she-cub has enough sense to rest before the hunt. I should start treating you like a puppy.

Really? Then who would brush your coat till it shines? I retorted, but I closed my eyes.

The Little One would, of course. You have no patience with grooming.

I wanted to answer to that unfair statement, but sleep claimed me before I could.

The people were moving in the plain. It was a long column of desperation, the stench of unwashed bodies and miscellaneous possessions clinging in the hot, humid summer air. I sneezed. The White Road was packed for many mile with refugees, their once different clothing made similar by days on the road. The once rich silk reduced to rags made the nobles one with the servants. The lucky ones carried hand carts for their meager possessions and trudged on. There was no sound, save the distant thundering. I was riding with Snowcloud at my heel, counter to the human tide, my mare obeying my orders promptly and eagerly. I shielded myself from their Wit presence, refusing to see who had yet energy enough to make it to Vietmar's border. But one of them caught my eye, again and again. I frowned and reined in the mare. Had I not seen those green eyes, that brown hair elsewhere? I looked at that single refugee who stood motionless against the other, and she smiled at me and spoke.

Hello Father. It is time to wake.

I awoke with a startled gasp that almost made me fall from the hammock. I swung wildly, nauseous, my body rigid and my teeth bared, till the momentum abated and the hammock ceased to move. I breathed in.

Chyne. I told her, wearily.

It is your turn to guard, and I did not know how to wake you without doing the same for all of the Jungle.

I had to concede to her logic, if grudgingly. The night was so complete that it was like a dark, warm velvet cloak around us. Only the insects and the faint sounds of the leaves stirred by the breeze or more rarely a bay or a distant scream broke the silence. I breathed out and quested with my Wit. Snowcloud was asleep, and Chyne herself was sleepy. Gombochab slept soundly and, blessedly, silently.

Very well, Chyne. I'll take the guard from now on. But you should really avoid entering people's dreams.

I tried not to think about the daughter who was mine in flesh if not in soul, and how she had done the same. Thinking of Nettle still hurts, even after all these years. I have became very good at not thinking about her.

I could feel Chyne's Skill-presence in the back of my mind starting to fade, then she hesitated.

I hope I gauged the time well, Father. Sometimes, I find myself agreeing with the Khams, when they say that any night in the Jungle is eternal. Good guard.

I moved a little on my hammock, and felt her falling asleep. I tried to recall my dream, frowning. I had the nagging feeling it had been important, but it had melted away, as dreams do, as soon as Chyne had woken me.

I don't know how long I stood here, trying to think of nothing and smelling and listening to the Jungle around me. The Jungle smells like warm, dry earth and leafy plants, with the wind carrying the heady, intoxicating smell of flowers. Not all those are good, some of them reek as a carrion would. But many more have pleasant, heavy scents. It was still night, but dawn could have been ten minutes or ten hours to come. There was no way to tell. Then I heard the almost imperceptible changes in the chirping of birds and insects, for they are the first to know when dawn is coming. I was just thinking on coming back to the ground when a voice startled me.

"Fitz? Are you sleeping?"

The soft sound made me almost jump out of my hammock for the second time in few hours. I tensed, then relaxed, then tensed again. I gulped. For a wild second, I thought about lying still and feigning sleep, but that would look like I had abandoned the guard.

"No."

I perceived something moving closer, and with a flash of insight I understood that he was sitting or lying down on one of the branches I had secured my hammock to. Only the Prophet could have made such a climb, in the darkness, with me unaware. I could hear him swallowing. I waited. For what, I don't know. I couldn't see him. The signs of dawn were here, but light would need more time to filter through to us. I had much to say and much to ask, and could do neither. So I chose silence.

"I... am sorry." I blinked.

"You said that already," I pointed out. We were both talking not above a whisper, so as not to disturb our companions. Chade's words from so long ago came back to me, when he told a man much younger than I am now how those words only work so often, and then they ring hollow. I heard him sigh. Not for the first time, I remembered the old words of my mentor.

"I feel as if I haven't said it enough." He paused again and murmured, softly. "I didn't mean it, Fitz. What... What I told you. I didn't mean it."

I don't think he wanted to confuse me some more, yet this is what happened. I frowned. In all the years I had known him, he had never spoken something he didn't mean. Whether other people had known or guessed his meaning or not. I turned my head towards his voice, gauging where he was by it. I had not been so tongue-tied in... a very long time. But before I could find in myself an answer I could hear him heave.

"I understand if you are... Angry at me. You have every right to be very angry at me indeed."

This surprised me so much that I blurted out: "I am not angry."

The surprise in my tone must have astonished him, because I could feel the shocked quality of the silence. Briefly, I marveled at how darkness seems to compound truths and confessions and I swung my leg under the hammock, into the nothing I was suspended upon. I forced myself to speak past the lump in my throat and the dryness of my mouth.

"You... were right. Are right. About everything." I let out a ragged breath and choked like a drowning man. I passed my hand over my face, scratching absentmindedly the stubble on my chin. My guts clenched. My mouth was parched and covered by a greasy film. I was glad I had not eaten the day before, or I knew I would feel worse still. Light was streaming softly into the clearing, tinted by the foliage. I could only dimly make out his silhouette. He was lying down on the stout branch, facing me, his cheek on his hand. I swallowed and closed my eyes.

"I wasn't. About nothing. You... I should have had more faith in that you wouldn't truly hurt that foolish boy. And..." I waited, iced to my core. Snowcloud moved in her sleep. I hastily shielded her, less she would catch a glimpse of what was happening and think the Prophet was hurting me. "And you have a right to want whoever you wish for your bed." Those last words were said low, even under the whispers we were using before. I blinked, turned my head and regarded him, uncomprehending. He had turned his head so that his face was hidden in the crook of his elbow. His hair was bound in a simple tail, and flowed down his back. It was still too dark to see anything beyond vague shapes. I suddenly wished I wasn't lying in a hammock. You can't sit up safely in one. Suspended on my back , I felt oddly vulnerable.

"Want? What you are talking about?" I questioned him. My confusion seemed to arose a similar reaction in him, for he peered at me from beyond his forearm.

"Thàn Ba Sendàr. I know you bedded him, Fitz." His voice was neutral, if tinted by a hint of impatience, but I almost didn't hear him. I felt ill. Cold sweat drenched me. I tried to swallow, and managed after two tries. My stomach hurt and I could taste bile in my mouth.

"I did. But you talked about desire. I did not... I never wanted it.," I explained. It was suddenly very important for him to understand this, though I don't know why since in that moment I would have preferred to face alone whatever had

killed the four Khams rather than speak about Sendàr with him.

He froze. He lay so still that for a moment I feared that he had done himself injury in some way. He wasn't breathing. Before I could speak, something like a sob was wrenched from him. He turned to regard me with eyes so wide that they seemed to take up half of his face. It made him look younger, and for a moment I knew a pang of loss. The light passing through the leaves gave his skin a greenish, unhealthy hue. I bit my lip and hung my head in shame. I watched blearily a  as a worm made its way over a leaf. It fitted with how I felt. I noticed I was trembling and the hammock shivered with me. I felt cold, even if I knew the climate was anything but. I didn't want to look in his eyes and again see revulsion and disgust. Yet what else could I see? It was what I felt towards myself as well.

"No." I was jostled out of my reverie by his words and his hand on my check. It was his unSkilled hand, and ungloved as well. His touch was kind and gentle, the coolness so shockingly familiar that I trembled. The word itself was a refutation, as if negating reality would somehow change it. Astonished, I raised my eyes to meet his. The lack of loathing I saw flooded me with a relief so deep that my head swam. To this day, I cannot name what I saw in his face that dawn, perched up a tree in the middle of the Jungle, because if his words wished to negate what I had told him, his eyes told me he had understood. It wasn't pity, nor compassion. It was grief and it was pain and it was shock. But to this all was mixed a deep, gut-wrenching guilt. I blinked. Why would he feel guilty?

He kept his hand on my cheek. In the growing light, I could see him swallowing and then his eyes closed, hiding whatever expressions they held. He stilled, an immobility that bespoke of greater emotion than any scream could. My heart beat wildly inside me, my mouth was parched. I let my head fall on my hand. I didn't want to speak about Sendàr, I didn't want to remember it and, most of all, I did not want him to hate me for it. Yet I had no control over all three.

 My Wit alerted me that Chyne and Snowcloud would soon wake, and then Keala would come to lead us. I sat up on the hammock and scrambled to the opposite branch my friend was on, and started to unknot the hammock strings. Silently, he sat up and did the same. It reminded me of how well we have always worked together and I gulped down the bile that rose in my throat and glanced at him. His eyes were unfocused, his lips thinned. I licked mine to moisten them and steadied my hands for the job. When we had finished, the others had awoken and where rolling up their bedrolls, while Snowcloud stretched and yawned. She sat to scratch behind her ear.

Good morning, sloth mine.

I looked down at her before sliding down one of the aerial roots. I did not turn to look at the Prophet. I would have preferred to forget the whole conversation.

I am no sloth. And to you, sister.

When my feet hit the ground a wave of dizziness caught me. I shook my head to clear it. Chyne came to me without a word and thrust a travel-ration in my hand, with so menacing a look that I eat it all, obligingly. I wasn't feeling well, and the taste and consistency sickened me, but I dared not leave even a piece behind.

"We will have to go soon. I seem to recall we will pass a stream by midmorning or midday. We could clean up and refill our flasks." I weighed mine as I spoke. It was almost empty. I grimaced, but there was nothing I could do.

Demmet, I come.

I turned my head toward the calling and Keala stepped out of the Jungle. He didn't lose time with other words, but turned and started walking. We followed. The morning was no better than the day before had been, and perhaps worse. The stifling heat bore down on us as a physical force and the canopy prevented us from seeing the sky. Our charms saved us the biting and stinging of the insects, but they stayed as an angry cloud just at the edge of the charms' effectiveness. Even I, for all my love for the Jungle, found the day unpleasant. I glanced back, worried for the little monk, but he seemed to take everything in stride and was looking with a deep curiosity at all around him. He caught my eyes and smiled a toothless smile.

"When you reach my age, Your Majesty, you will learn that there is little that bothers you." He commented, cheerfully. I shook my head and went on. I avoided looking at the Prophet, who was walking demurely beside Chyne, his eyes downcast. Snowcloud regarded me levelly, but I kept myself shielded from her. Her blue eyes darted towards the Prophet, and I saw her lips curling up.

No, sister. He did... nothing to me.

She growled slowly, deep in her throat. I sighed and crouched to pass beneath a fallen log.

He didn't. We just... talked. She growled again. I groaned.

Fine, don't talk. But he has done nothing.

She looked unconvinced, but at least she didn't growl at him again.

There was no more talk. The heat and the humidity sapped our wish to engage each other, and the less noise we made, the better. I could still feel the Khams flickering in and out of my perception, but nothing more. Keala didn't speak. I did not endeavor to get him to do so, for I carried a burden of my own. I felt within me a nagging sense of loss. It was the irritating sensation of knowing one had forgotten something, but was unable to recall what. I had left something behind. Or I had forgotten to do something important, something I had been intending to do. The frustration chafed at me like vermin under my skin.

We reached the stream before the sun was at its peak, and took the occasion to wash the worst of the sweat off. The water came from the glacier, and it was deliciously cool and refreshing. The Prophet went a little upstream from us, to find a quiet place to bathe alone. Snowcloud wasn't so restrained: she jumped straight into the current and splashed merrily. I couldn't avoid chuckling. Gombochab put his withered head into the cool water with evident pleasure and even Chyne entered the cool, waist-deep river. I followed suit, still dressed. I eyed my clothes and decided that a change was in order. I did so behind a boulder, taking off the stiff royal garment and replacing it with the simpler Khams' attire. When I went back to the others, Keala regarded me with marked approval.

I looked around and frowned. "Where is the Prophet?"

Everybody, including Keala, searched for him. But then I heard his muffled voice, from upstream thence he went.

"I am here. And you should come as well."

We didn't lose time. We ran, all of us, even the old Gombochab, who leapt like a mountain jeppa towards the Prophet. We all feared the same, I am certain of it. More bodies. More deaths.

We found him some feet from the water. He stood silent, his long sleek hair still wet from the bath, crunched, not kneeling, but in his usual position, sit with his knees against his chest in front of a big anthill. These are common in the Jungle, there being a wide variety of ants. the The bite of some of them are so painful as to be aptly called "fire-ants". These here were common black ants, though, living in a big mound of earth shaped by themselves in a rough hill, no more than three feet high, and I couldn't understand his interest. We had passed by many of those on our trek. I kneeled close to him, and peered, trying to understand the cause of his careful observation. Keala sniffed the air, and so did Snowcloud. Without a word, he offered to me his open palm. Inside, inside, there lay a single wooden bead. I recognized the workmanship immediately and raised my gaze to his. He pointed with his head at the nest. I noticed the sign of a recent devastation. Water seemed to have eroded the small mound. I looked around. There were no signs of a flood. I put myself on all four, and searched around the nest, my heart pounding. And I found it. All around the destroyed anthill, seven small wooden beads, not unlike the one that the Prophet had handed me.

I rose to sit on my heel, unseeing.

In a flash of intuition, I knew what I couldn't place, and where I had seen already bodies akin the ones we had found the day before and why my dreams had brought me back to that fateful day on Vietmar's border. I turned grimly towards the others, and three pairs of eyes looked at me. Snowcloud had bolted, and was scrambling around the stream's banks. I didn't spare any thoughts to wonder why.

"We have a Demon on our track. Probably more than one." I gestured at the  anthill and at the small beads. "And at least a shaman."

Chyne's expression darkened. Gombochab looked at me with seriousness in his black eyes. Keala turned his head between the Prophet and me, and then he threw his head back and howled. Snowcloud howled with him and the Free People echoed them, humans and wolves alike. I let their howls wash over me like I had with the stream's water. It was a warning, and a dire one. I waited for them to finish, my eyes never leaving the nest, a thousand thoughts whirling inside of me, like hornets. 


	10. Chapter Eight: Tar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Sand Dun and Impoeia, my betas! :)
> 
> And to Andromeda-Aires, who is an amazing artist and a great person in general. Go see her DA gallery, she makes awesome art! http://andromeda-aries.deviantart.com/
> 
> Fitz&Fool&the RoE Universe are not mine. Everything else is u.u

** Chapter Eight: Tar **

_Ukzabat (or Uzkabat, as both spellings are correct) is a quiet land of simple folks and pleasant villages. Despite the presence of the second great river of Clerres, the Khasbe, the land is not as fertile as Liantharin or neighboring Dhevron. The soil is rocky and it yields good crops only close to the river itself and in the great bight where Karsba, the second city of Uzkabat is set. The rest of the land is mostly pastures and steppes. The great riches of Ukzabat are in its mines, for the north part of the land is on the downhill slopes of the Behit's Mountains and those hills are rippling with metals and precious stones._

_Ukzabat is a matrilineal society, where the children take the name and family of their mother, and only women can hold land and livestock. It is a saying and a joke in all the lands of Clerres that Uzkabat women eat their men. While that is not true, it is true that Ukzabat tends to breed more females than males, at a rate of two to one. This doesn't seem to bother the hardy folks of the country in the least._

_Uzkabat is a Queendom in a more definite way than Liantharin is. Here the queen rule directly over their subjects, and the men of their family, be they sons or consorts, have no political weight. Queen Yanti is the firstborn daughter of the late Queen Iyrial, and the current ruler of the land. She has an infant daughter, still nameless. Her younger sister, Queen Chundra, has married King Than Bà Sendàr and King Xanhà Doi Chihn of Vietmar, and is currently the ruler of that country together with King Xanhà Doi Chihn. She has a son, Prince Than Doi Chien. Since both Ukzabat and Vietmar had been under attack from the Iduyan Nomads, the marriage was a political one, to unite two lands facing a common foe. Rumors want that Queen Chundra hoped to learn more of the foreign magic of King Chihn, to help her own people. It is unknown whether she has been successful in this, or even if the rumor is accurate. It is however true that Uzkabat had profited greatly both from the magicians that King Chihn sent to them and from the training of their troops by his officers. The Ukzabat women have taken to fighting like the ground takes to the rain after a drought and all the land that had to be given to the invaders has been recaptured, and no further invasion of Uzkabat from the Iduyans hence has been successful._

 

 

I waited for the sounds to die down, and for the stifling silent heat of the jungle to come back. As the last echoes died away, I turned toward Chyne. Then I hesitated. I pointed the destroyed nest out to Keala, and showed him the charm bead. He sniffed it, a low growl in his throat. Snowcloud watched us, her tail curled around her paws, and said nothing.

"The shaman must have first attempted to rouse the ants to create a demon from them. When he didn't succeed, he roused the water from this stream, to make a Water Demon. Those are beads from the charms only a shaman could use." I explained to him, in Kham. He regarded me with eyes that held more self than any wolf, and growled.

_So such is our enemy, Demmet. Water leaves no scent, but a man does!_

Having spoken thusly he jumped on his paws and scrambled around, sniffing and scenting the banks, looking for the smell of human among them. Snowcloud watched him and then me.

_I did that already, Changer. I smelled a known smell._

Her blue eyes locked with mine. I sighed.

 _The Suen's Shaman._ Mine was not a question.

 _You are improving, brother mine! There is hope for you yet!_ She lolled her tongue at me. I glared at her but she just snorted and gestured with her head to the other members of our party. Gombochab looked vaguely worried, and additional creases marred his wrinkled forehead. Chyne was observing keenly ) the Jungle, her green eyes searching for any untoward movement. The Prophet... The Prophet watched me with a piercing look I had seen so often in him. I almost squirmed.

"Chyne." I called her. She turned to face me. I breathed. "Take Gombochab back to the main retinue. I trust you will be able to do so." She looked appalled at me and I could see the refusal already on her lips. I raised my hand to stall her. "Think, my daughter. This demon may not be the only one. There is Vien with the retinue, but Vien is no warrior." I locked eyes with her, to show her my will. She clamped her jaws shut stubbornly when the Prophet bespoke.

"And with the retinue there is one who knows more of this than any other three combined." I watched the Prophet and his gaze told me he had understood. I nodded, to add my thoughts to his. Chyne frowned and growled, a sound not unlike Keala's.

"Suen Bright Jade."

I could feel Snowcloud's pride at her cub. I only nodded. Chyne clenched her hand.

"Vien could take her, Father. There is no need for me there, and much need for me here," she countered. I shook my head. The heat and the whirling, buzzing insects were pressing at my temple, and I could feel the sweat tickling down my spine. I shrugged it off.

"Perhaps Bright Jade knows of it, perhaps she doesn't. Her father may have sent the shaman without telling her. Or she may be the one who requested the shaman's presence, and her father may be unaware of this. Or both may know nothing, and this may well be an independent decision of the shaman itself." I massaged my temples with the heels of my palms. There was something I wasn't thinking about. "While you go, Chyne, I want you to Skill a report to Vien." I avoided her curious gaze. I knew she wanted to know why I couldn't do it myself, but I had my reasons to avoid Skilling so close to the Prophet. The tattered and torn remnants of our Skill-Bond tore at my perception, paining me. But she had no need to know.

I glanced at the destroyed nest. The creature had been summoned no more than one or two days before, if the tracks left were those of the same creature that had killed the four Khams. And those beings were the strongest at their younger. I glanced again at my daughter and sighed. I touched our Skill-Bond, carefully avoiding the painful remains of another.

_Chyne, Gombochab can't stay with us. I can't let him go back by himself, either._

I could perceive her determination faltering and pressed on.

_You may reunite with us once you and Vien have spoken with Bright Jade. It is important that she tells us if her family is behind this or not. We need to know everything about the Shaman they brought here, how they found him and why one of the three neutral tribes is attacking Vietmar now. Vien is a Huan, she is less likely to speak to him than to you. And in any case, Vien will need a witness._

I could feel her pause and think over all the arguments I presented her. Her mind, when I Skill to her, sometimes appalls me. She is bright, but she is also cold and logical. It is not that she has no feeling, as much as that she doesn't let them think for her. She was looking at my arguments from all angles. Only when she could find no fault in them, could I feel her relent. I managed not to sigh with relief.

_I'll go, Father. But be careful. When you love or like something, you don't see it anymore. And you like the Khams._

I glared at her but she refused to be cowed and met me squarely in the eyes. She turned toward Gombochab. The ancient monk had been strolling around the ant nest, idly poking at it with his walking stick.

"It is time to go, Venerable Gombochab." The monk looked at both of us with a fey and stubborn glow in his dark eyes.

"I am a White Monk, and I take no orders from kings," he said, with dignity. My jaw dropped. What he said was true, for by the law of Clerres, only the Prior can order the White Monks to do or not do something. The Prior, or the Prophet.

"And the White Prophet says that you will go with Chyne back to the White Inn, Gombochab." The Prophet's quiet voice broke the calidity. I glanced at him, then at the monk. I could see that this was going to be no easier than my conversation with Chyne. Gombochab frowned and started speaking in the tongue of Behit. This is a language I don't know, though some words and phrases reminded me of White, and as such I could make some sense of it. The Prophet answered him, calmly and surely. I left them to decide it between themselves, with little doubt that the Prophet would win.

_I'll send one of mine to check the path, Demmet._

I turned my head to Keala.

 _Thank you. It may be needed._ I massaged my forehead, wishing I could postpone the whole enterprise. I noticed Snowcloud close to the Kham's leader.

 _I talked to him, brother mine._ I nodded, relieved. Snowcloud could explain the Demons to a Kham better than I could. I had been dreading the attempt to make Keala understand them. For no small part because I myself had only the vaguest idea of what, exactly, an Iduyan's Demon was. But I knew that the notion of a life-force made solid, or of a number of bugs working as one entity would be completely alien to the Khams. And they were not as quick to learn as the people of Vietmar or Uzkabat.

I turned to the Prophet, who had won the argument, if Gombochab's sulking face was to be believed.

"Perhaps we should come back with them, and attempt to go to the Tree once we have smoked out the Shaman and its Demons." I said.

He sighed, his slim shoulders rising under his vest. "I wish, but I can't do that. The White Prophet has begun his Journey, and we must go forward."

I raised an eyebrow. "To be the supposed ultimate authority of Clerres, there are a lot of things you can't do," I pointed out.

His lips twitched. "Don't tell me that." There was a hint of mockery, of jest in his voice and my spirit soared. I smiled at him and he smiled back. He had always been so quick to find humor in even the most dismal circumstances, but I had feared that this quality of his may have been lost. It felt good to know it hadn't. His eyes shone like a light had been kindled inside of them. I smiled again.

I breathed in and looked around, to gauge Chyne's and Gombochab's preparation. I watched while Gombochab and Chyne, with similar disgruntled expressions, went back to the Jungle with nary more a word. Keala and Snowcloud watched them go and then, like one wolf, they trotted to the path we had been following.

I gestured to the Prophet to follow them. I fell into step with him, my eyes searching the Jungle, but the heavy canopy didn't hide only the light. A thousand demons could be hid beyond the leaves and I would be none the wiser. I groaned.

The Prophet eyed me.

"You fought demons already. What do you suggest?"

I glanced at him. He had spoken in all seriousness. I frowned. "Iduyan Demons are... Strange creatures. They feel... weird, to both my magics," I explained to him. l frowned, and tried to align my thoughts. "To my Wit, only the ones made of animals feel alive. The Ant-Demons, the Spider-Demons are living beings, but they seem more than the sum of the parts that make them. The Water-Demons, Fire-Demons, Air-Demons or Rock-Demons are... here. I can't say it better than this. They are not alive, as a tree or a beast is alive. But-" I paused. I glanced at my companion, expecting puzzlement, but all I could see on his face was a thoughtful expression. I pressed on. "The Wit is... the perception of all that connects everything alive. The Forged ones were alive, but not connected. The Demons... they are connected, but not alive." I shook my head, frustrated by my inability to put it to words. "I can't explain better than this."

He just nodded, biting his lip and wiped the sweat from his brown. "And to the Skill?"

I shrugged. "It is... strange. I can't feel them at all with the Skill. Yet, when I try to Skill to them, it slices through them like a razor blade." I frowned. "It feels... wrong. Sickening." I shook my head, disheartened. "And draining." He nodded again, slowly, and I noticed the sweat darkening his hair to a deep black, even with the cooling bath just done. He walked briskly, but I noticed that the heat was getting to him.

_Keala, we need to stop at a place with a stream this evening.._

I saw his ears move, and knew he had heard me. Snowcloud turned her head to regard both of us and trotted back to amble at my side. I scratched her head. A stream would leave us open to the Water Demon, but it would provide coolness and fresh water. We had no true choice in the matter, for I feared for the Prophet's health in the stifling heat.

"So you could fight this demon." His was not a question, but I nodded.

"Yes, I could. But Water Demons are quick. They can drown a man in very little time." I massaged my chin and frowned at the stubble.

"I see. I'll stand out of your way." I regarded him with a mixture of relief and satisfaction. Last thing I needed was for him to attempt to fight the Demon, and I had begun to dread having to tell him so. I did not wish to make him think I doubted his courage, for I don't. But there is courage and there is folly. "Yes, thank you. It would be better if I had not to care about your safety as well."

He shrugged and took a swig out of his flask.

"So, you think that this... Demon has been sent by House Suen?" I shook my head slowly and frowned.

"No." My own certainty startled me. "No," I repeated, slowly. "There is something... strange at work here," I said, battling away a cloud of buzzing insects. "Why would House Suen side with the Panther People? And how? And why would the Khoromoy tribe come here all of a sudden, so far away from their territory, and decide to fight us after so many years? There are easier ways to kill either of us that this one." As I voiced my concern, I felt them crystallizing inside me. There was another reason, something else at work. I groped toward it, but it eluded me. Frustrated, I shook my head.

_Pack against pack, brother mine. But whose pack is against us, I wonder.?_

I eyed Snowcloud, and nodded.

"And we haven't been attacked as of yet. It may well be that those two Khams saw something they shouldn't have, of have or stumbled upon something somebody wanted to keep hidden."

I nodded again, then frowned. The heat was so great it seemed to move inside a honey jar. And a nagging feeling kept bothering me, the precise impression that there was something else, something important, that I was not taking into consideration. But the heat made even thinking a chore, and we had to keep walking. Keala trotted in front of us, undaunted.

"How long do you think Chyne and Gombochab will need to go back to the White Inn?"

I pondered the question. "Two days, or three if they take it slowly." A smile twitched my lips. "Gombochab seems a hardier fellow that his years would deem him. Two could be it."

He nodded and wetted his hair with the last of his water. I looked at him from the corner of my eyes. "Gombochab is an... old friend."

"He told me he helped you escape." I regretted the words as soon as they passed my lips. He spoke so seldom of his childhood. But he only nodded, bending to avoid a creeping vine.

"Yes. I don't think I would have managed it, without him. I was always watched, as I told you. Had he not lied I would never have made it to the Great Sail Fleet in time. He was punished for it." He paused and then added. "I haven't forgotten." I waited, but he didn't seemed inclined to say more. So we kept walking. I cast back my mind over the problems, my eyes searching the Jungle. Aside from the Demon and the Shaman, I still didn't know how I could help my friend regain his prescience. I was almost sure he still had the ability, but then why did he seem so completely unaware of it, to the point of not recognizing his own prophecies for what they were?

I don't know how much time passed in silence and heat. Even Snowcloud was subdued, and her usual lively wit was dimmed by the humidity. I was too hot to try to quest toward the Khams surely around us. I wiped the sweat of my brown, and longingly thought of Buckkeep's winters. I heard a change in the Prophet's steps and turned around in time to catch him before he stumbled and fell. His arms closed around my bare shoulders reflexively. I touched his forehead. It was warm. I almost cursed under my breath. Keala was at our side, watching the Prophet.

The Prophet tried to stand. "It is nothing, Fitz. I..."

I snorted. "You are getting a heatstroke," I told him flatly. I took out my own flask, still almost full and handed it to him. After a moment of hesitation, he accepted it. He spilled half of it on his head and drank the other half. I turned toward Keala and quested a question to him. He shrugged.

_The stream is nearby._

I didn't ask him the distance. He had very little concept of such a thing. I glanced at the Prophet. His colouring was so dark that it was hard to gauge if any reddish shade had been added to it, but there was a glassy look in his eyes, and his clothes were drenched in sweat. I bit my lip. He caught my eyes and spoke, quietly.

"I shall travel. Go on, Fitz."

I kept walking close to him. It would be hours after darkness had come before the entrapped heat would leave the lower Jungle, that I knew well. Sunlight and a light breeze were playing together in the higher branches, giving the day a fey and dappled air, but not a leaf moved on the ground. Blessedly, within the hour we heard the sound of running water. The Prophet's face animated and his steps became more lively. I was not so eager.

 _Sister?_ I called, searching for Snowcloud with my eyes.

_The Free People say there is nothing and none at the stream, brother mine._

I nodded, but this didn't reassure me. The Demon may still lay in wait, invisible. Water inside water. When we could see the clearing I stopped the Prophet's motion toward it, laying a hand over his shoulders. He frowned, and turned to me. I put my finger over my lips, inviting silence, and stealthily moved over. The stream was a typical Jungle stream, pouring between the trees in a bed of rocks. We had approached it from a small clearing, where a tree had been struck by lightning, leaving a small, rocky beach. The place itself looked like a pool of beauty and peace, the light dancing over the water in a thousand reflections and the moss covering the rock in a promise of coolness, but I trusted it not. I skipped from rock to rock. I stopped over the water, searching with my eyes for a place where the water was still, and with my Wit for that not living connection that was the unique mark of the Iduyan's Demons. But I found nothing.

When I turned, Snowcloud was already drinking at the edge of the stream. I nodded, coming back to the banks. "It should be safe." I had not finished speaking before the Prophet had dived into the water, fully dressed. I watched amused, for nobody else could manage such a feat with any kind of grace, let alone with the elegance that he contrived.

I knelt in the cold water, letting it close over my shoulders and let the stream wash away the heat from my bare skin. Not for the first time, I blessed the pragmatism of the Khams' clothes. Snowcloud paddled toward me.

_I am tired of old meat, brother mine. Lets hunt._

I looked at her pondering her suggestion. The idea of leaving the Prophet alone didn't appease me. She snorted.

_We don't have to go far, Changer; the banks will be teeming with game. Come on. Lets hunt._

She poked at me with her nose, again and again, her blue, dancing eyes full of a fey light. I relented. I sighed and stood up, aware that there was no fighting her when she was in this mood.

_Very well, sister, but only close by._

She swam back to the beach and shook her fur clear of water and headed purposefully upstream, whence the evening breeze came. I turned toward the Prophet, noticing he had his head under a small waterfall, with an expression of pure bliss on his features.

"I am going hunting with Snowcloud. We don't have much provisions. I'll stay call close." I waited to see his nod of acknowledgment, then went. We were lucky, as a family of javelina, the squirrel strange animals that looked like a cross between a pig and a squirrel, was drinking upstream. We leapt upon two of the whelps, while the rest of the herd, panicked, scattered with bizarrely pig-like squeals. I tied the hooves of my kill together and immersed it in water to kill all the parasites found in its fur. Then I swung it over my shoulder, pleased with myself, the burden of Demons and Khams forgotten for a blissful moment. Snowcloud's neck stood rigid in the effort to carry her own game, but her gait was proud. I could perceive her wish to share her kill with Keala. As I walked down back to the beach, I snorted at her. She cocked one of her ears at me, placing each paw with care in front of herself.

_Each of us shall share with our mate, brother mine._

I groaned. _He is not my mate._ I paused. _And you and Keala..._

She turned her white head to me and wagged her tail so strongly it thumped against a nearby tree. _You wish to know!_

Her mental laugh followed me as I approached where I had left the Prophet and what little we had of packs. I shook my head, but was long since used to my companion's behavior. As I circled a moss-covered boulder, I looked around alarmed, but my fears were assuaged by the sight of the Prophet kneeling close to a fire. The light was dimming, and soon, I knew, a fire would be useful, both for light and for cooking. I regarded his form, while he was busy preparing a rough spit for the meat. He had not changed, and the long robes of the White Prophet were not ideal for the Jungle and wet besides. I knew they were more likely to mold than to dry. For this and other reasons I had nothing more than a loincloth to cover myself, and it was well enough. Still, I doubted he would accept to don such a garments. I mulled it over, the javelina in one hand, the other over the boulder as I watched, unseen, the Prophet. His movements were precise and elegant as they had always been. He perched upon a small rock, his knees up to his chest, nimbly carving a spit out of a green branch with the help of a belt knife. The movements of his finger hypnotized me. I watched, unable to stop myself or to move. In that moment a mind brushed against mine. I tensed, but my muscle relaxed as I recognized the particular, neither human nor beastly mind of Keala.

_I thank you for the meat, Demmet._

I nodded, even if he couldn't see me. Such is the way the Khams give honor to each other: by giving to one in the name of any that they consider worthy of credit. This custom greatly confounded me in the beginning, for it means that I would give something to Keala in the name of Snowcloud, and in that way I would show the Free People how much I valued my Wit-Partner. This practice is as highly stylized as any concerning the White Prophet, with several levels in which one can improve another's reputation, each needing an increasing amount of gifts and wealth being given in the to-be-honored person's name to an increasing amount of people. Snowcloud had given her kill to Keala in my name, and thus she had both showed her regard for me and increased my standing among the Khams, even if  only a little. I felt my heart warming and smiled. Snowcloud's bout of love and care, mingled with the usual amusement, answered me. My smile widened.  

_Keala?_

I could perceive the satisfaction of a good meal when he answered me. _Yes, Demmet?_

 _Could you procure me the clothes of a female Kham?_ I inquired. The Khams' women typical vest is a simple one, a single piece of cloth tied around the hips and over the shoulders. It would have to do. If Keala was surprised at my request, he didn't show it. _Yes, with ease._ I felt him going back to his meal, and I was about to show myself to the Prophet, when a familiar Skill-voice touched me.

 

_Hello, Father. I hope I am not interrupting anything, but I think you should know._ _We have been attacked._


	11. Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Sand Dun and Impoeia, my betas! :)
> 
> And to Andromeda-Aires, who is an amazing artist and a great person in general. Go see her DA gallery, she makes awesome art! http://andromeda-aries.deviantart.com/
> 
> And thanks to D. who commented last chapter. Really, thank you!
> 
> Fitz&Fool&the RoE Universe are not mine. Everything else is u.u
> 
>  
> 
> Not much happening now, I admit it. It is going to change soon I promise *evil laugh*

** Chapter Nine: Moon **

 

_The Road Horse is a the only kind of horse indigenous to Clerres. It is a hardy breed with a brawny and strong body, broad chested and with well-sprung ribs. Its neck is muscular; the legs are long but strong with good bone structure and resistant joints. The croup is sloping, the haunches well-muscled, and the back short with a strong loin.  Road Horses are found in all colours, from gray to black, but the lighter hues are prized above the darker shades._

_The most striking feature of this kind of horse is its speed over long distance. A Road Horse is not exactly courser, for it never reaches the high speeds of some other kind, like the ones bred in Shoak. Rather, it is a horse able to run at a sort of fluid canter for days on end. A common Road Horse can ride 466 miles in twelve days, feeding on whatever grass is on the side of the road. A good Road Horse can cover the same distance in ten. It is also a good runner over man-made roads that would do grievous harm to another breed sinewy. The Road Horse has been bred to move nimbly and swiftly on the White Roads, and it does so admirably._

I felt my whole body tense. Bile rose in my throat and a sour taste burnt my mouth. I knew a flash of desperation. Had I sent my daughter into the maw of danger? I urgently quested towards her ith a wordless mingle of Wit and Skill. My magics gave me the answer before she could. She was weary and I could feel the vague beginning of a Skill-headache, the constant follower of a fight with the Skill. I could discern no wounds before she cut me out with amused weariness.

 _Father, be calm. All is well. This isn't the first Demon I fought, remember?_ My attempt to squash my anxiety must have had little success, for I could perceive a mental sparkle as she chuckled at her old man _. Listen, I am too tired to keep the channel open for long. The Demon I fought behaved... strangely._

I frowned and perceived Snowcloud, silently listening to our conversation from where she was with Keala.

_Strangely, how?_

_It attacked us as we went back. We were close to the place where the four Khams died, perhaps half a mile west from there . And wouldn't have been for Gombochab's keen hearing, it would have been six, not four bodies on the earth._ I could feel her respect for the ancient monk. I almost smiled. _But he heard the slithering of the Demon, and warned me. I fought it, and I reduced its power by perhaps half. Yet, it kept fighting._

I frowned again. This was indeed strange behavior. Demons are difficult to evoke, and the shamans usually don't allow one to be completely destroyed in a battle, unless much is at stake. I had forgotten the World around me. My World was the Skill-Link, the silver gossamer connecting me and Chyne. But she hadn't finished her tale. _It may have been ordered to kill._ I pointed out to her.

_It may be. But when I retreated, it did not follow us._

I bit my lip and considered her words carefully, and the exhausted image and sensation that came with them. _You think it is guarding something._

_Yes. So it seems, at least. Perhaps its master was near, and it had been simply ordered to guard it him. Iduyans don't like the Jungle._

I nodded and felt the link quiver and ebb. I sighed. She had kept the link open longer than she should have. I wish I could say I don't know where she got that stubbornness from, but I knew all too well. _Chyne, sleep tonight and go back to the White Inn as decided. We shall take care._

She was too tired to agree, and closed our link with a last thought, a greeting and a warning at the same time. I sighed and made to rub my eyes. They were sticky and dry from being open and unblinking..

_I shouldn't call Chyne my cub, brother mine. The place if is rightfully yours._

I almost groaned at Snowcloud's comment.

_I am unsure whether or not to relate this to Keala. He may send some of his People there, and what can they do against a Water Demon?_

I felt her shrugging. This was too much a human thought for my wolf-dog. She accepted my idea was a good one. I mentally checked what day it was, for it surely was monumental.

 _You are so amusing, brother mine._ _So_. I smiled in spite of everything.

I blinked rapidly, my eyelids fluttering to moisten my eyes. At first, I could see nothing. Nor could I speak, for my mouth and throat were likewise dried to leather. I rolled my shoulders and blinked rapidly, fluttering my eyelids and cursing at myself. I tried to use what senses I still had to gauge my surrounding. My ears could only hear the rippling, rushing sound of the streams and the slight crackling of the Prophet's small fire. The only scent in the air was that of leaves and water and my kill, still in my hand. My Wit told me much more about the life moving abroad. No big meat-eater, and no sign of the particular lifeless connection of the Demons. I relaxed a bit. Sight came back to me, blurry at first. I could see the Prophet. Only as a vague, fairer shape amidst many in the beginning, but as my vision came back to me, I saw his figure better. It never ceased to amaze me  how little time a long conversation in the Skill takes. By the advancements in the preparation, I  estimated only a few minutes had passed. He had found some wild onions to go with our meal. It reminded me of how well we have always worked together, and I felt a pang in my chest. I made a sound, cracking a twig under my foot to warn him of me. He raised his head sharply but his posture relaxed in seeing me relaxed when he saw me. I motioned with the hand that sill held the small animal. "I brought dinner."

He nodded. Before he could speak, I had seated myself at the fire and took out the khamrang from its sheath. I started to prepare the javelina for the cooking, talking all the while.

"Chyne Skilled to me. She met the Iduyan's Demon and fought it. By her words, it behaved strangely. Almost like it was guarding something -" A strangled sound halted me, something like a cry choked down. I looked around wildly, my finger contracting around the long knife, but I could see no reason for him to call such an alarm. The stream rippled away peacefully, and the late afternoon life went on around us. I looked at him, a question already on my lips. His expression halted me. His face was frozen in an expression of pain, his wide dark eyes set on my lap. I looked down stupidly. I had been preparing my kill. I had gutted it where I had caught it, and now I was -

I was skinning it. Half of the skin of the pig-like creature had been parted from the muscles, and it lay in my hand, the motion to strip it from the meat stopped by his reaction. I almost cursed myself loudly for my stupidity. I stood still, like an idiot or a fawn shocked by the hound's bay, watching him with what I was sure was a fatuous air, my mind trying frantically to decide what to do. He ended my quandary by scrambling to his feet with wild, jerking motions utterly unlike him and walking swiftly towards the shelter of the trees.  

I was left alone with the fire and the water. I blinked, owlishly. Then I sighed.

_You are right, my sister. I am more foolish than a puppy._

I could only feel her assent. She was getting closer, coming at a swift trot. I debated with myself about going to him, and decided against it. Some things a man should do alone.

I finished skinning the javelina and threw the skin into the water. I had no way to cure it and there was no sense in keeping it. I stuffed the carcass with wild onions and sage, and put it to roast on the spit. Snowcloud came and let herself fall beside me, her tongue lolling and her flanks rising. It was hot, and doubly so close to the fire. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and looked longingly at the cool water nearby. But the meat wasn't going to cook itself. I glanced to where the Prophet had disappeared, chewing my lip. The Jungle is no place for the unprepared and alone. Yet I couldn't go with him.

Snowcloud rose to her feet. I didn't look at her, expecting another dive in the water. She had fur and I didn't. I could sweat and she couldn't. She suffered from the heat more than I did. Instead, she trotted leisurely towards the Jungle, trailing the path of the Prophet. I was so shocked I almost let part of the meat burn. Then I breathed out and smiled. _Thank you, sister._

_Don't mention it, brother mine. Don't mention it._

I went back to the meat, cursing again my own callousness. I frowned at the skinless animal roasting on the fire, the exposed flesh and muscles reminding me of another, so long ago. I felt nauseous all of a sudden. Then I took it down and cut it into pieces. It would cook faster and resemble less the memories neither of us wanted to face.

The shadows had almost settled, and the meat was ready, when the Prophet returned, Snowcloud at his heels. She flipped a low-tipped ear at me, and without pausing went for a dive. I heard the splashing in the background. I didn't know how to address what had happened, so I did nothing. I silently handed a thigh pierced on a stick. He took it without looking at me and sat down by the fire. I almost frowned. His slender shoulders were hunched and his eyes downcast. I did not know what to say. In the end, I continued the conversation.

"I can't understand what an Iduyan's Demon could be guarding here, save its master. It may well be what the four Khams found. Khams' People are very territorial, they wouldn't have taken well to a stranger on their own hunting ground. There are reasons the Khams' word for "to meet" is "to fight"."

He nodded, licking his fingers and raising his eyes. I almost sighed with relief. The meat smelled wonderful, but the scent made me sick, not hungry. I lowered my own portion.

"So a Iduyan's Shaman and its demonic bodyguard are taking a lovely stroll through the Jungle?" He raised an eyebrow, poignantly. "I can't understand why many more of them don't. I mean, aside from being hot enough to roast you alive, full of buzzing insects and ferocious meateaters, not to mention the lovely local customs, the Jungle is just the place to unwind a little after all the fights of Liantharin. After two weeks here, the Shaman would positively itch to come back to the battlefield."

I chuckled and shrugged. "The only logical solution I can see is revenge. If Suen Baoja had ordered it before I saved Ghuozi, and forgot to call it back..."

He nodded. "Or it may be an independent decision of Bright Jade, to avenge his brother. Doesn't matter, I suppose."

I nodded. The night sounds were replacing the day ones, and as the day-flowers closed their petals, the scent of the Jungle changed as well. I breathed in, deeply, and exhaled.

"Chyne... She is Chade's daughter, isn't she?"

His tentative words caught me by surprise. I blinked at him, where he sat on the other side of the fire.

"Yes. I don't know about her mother, and neither does she. We both left when she when she was about a year old, after Chade's -" My voice failed in me. I couldn't very well say Chade had died. It was the truth, but it was only part of it. I shuddered. I suddenly felt cold, the sweat  cooling on my skin. I drew my knees up to my chest and hugged them, to retain as much warmth as possible.

Once, when I was only a boy in Burrich's care, before King Shrewd took notice of me and made me his, a new hand came to Buckkeep's stable. I think it was an inlander, perhaps from Tilth. On his first day, Burrich put him to clean the stalls and  change the horses' straw bedding. In the evening, the straw was clean and fresh in all of them in all the stalls. An impressive feat, for so many horses. Even  Burrich had been pleased, and I remember my jealousy at his compliments to the new hand, for it was a rare thing indeed for Burrich to speak praise. The next morning I went to clean the night waste, one of my usual chores. When I took the first fork of soiled bedding, the clean hay drifted away. Under it, there was the filth of the previous day, unmoved. It was summer, and it was hot. Flies had laid eggs and the eggs had hatched over the horses' excrements. Fat white maggots seethed everywhere under the straw, slithering and crawling over the clean hay. My stomach had been hardened by cleaning stables and kennels, but I couldn't hold it. Burrich came, attracted by the noise, and I remember well his stony expression at the sight. All the stalls had to be cleansed with water and vinegard, and I never saw that hand again.

Now I felt as if my life was akin to those stalls from so long ago. A thin veil of clean straw, over a boiling mass of manure and maggots, and the Prophet's words were the fork that unveiled the truth.

He didn't say another word. I couldn't volunteer any more. He had already seen me as a whore and a cruel man for what had happened with Sendàr and with Ghuozi. What would he think had he know what had happen in truth to Chade? The idea made me nauseous. Snowcloud quested toward me. I attempted to assuage her fear. This worry was too human a thing for my wolfdog to understand. I felt her quest receding, but I am unsure if I succeeded at easing her alarm.

"Aren't you going to eat?" I blinked and lifted my head from my knees. He pointed with his chin at the uneaten javelina thigh in my hand. I looked at it without comprehension. Then I shrugged. "I am not hungry," I told him. Snowcloud paddled back from her bath.

_If you don't mind, I'll have it, brother mine._

I was about to throw it to her, when she put all four of her paws on the ground and shook herself clear of water, showering both me and the Prophet.

"Snowcloud!" We yelped, in unison. Her tongue lolling out in silent laughter at us, she stole the thigh out of my hand, running away to eat it, her tail high and proud.

I frowned and looked at the Prophet. "She does this on purpose."

He sighed and patted his even wetter garments mournfully. "I noticed."

This seemed a good moment to breach the topic of his clothes. I cleared my throat, wondering how he would take it. "You aren't dressed in the most appropriate way.," I said, gruffly, kindling the fire. He sighed.

"I know. Now. They were the best I had, though. They are good enough for the usual Vietmar's weather. I thought they would work for Waitan as well."

I nodded and hesitated. "Perhaps you should try what the Khams use. They are the most knowledgeable about the Jungle."

At my suggestion he looked pointedly at me. He made a show of it, his gaze sweeping slowly from my bare shoulders to the loincloth, - the only item I wore aside from the flexible sandals, - down to my exposed legs. Then he met my eyes and raised an eyebrow with an expression that conveyed the thought, " _I don't think so",_  in such a way that I laughed freely. To do so in his presence was as natural as it was odd. A flash of delight passed through his eyes. In an instant, laughter burst from him as well. The lingering tension broken, and we both laughed until the tears streamed down our cheeks.

When our mirth subsided, I looked at the Prophet and for the first time since our confrontation in Fisil I felt a twinge of hope in my chest. He wiped the tears from his eyes.

"I didn't mean clothes exactly as the ones I am wearing now," I explained to him, between hiccups. "I thought about clothes like the Khams' women don. It is a long fabric, without seams, tied in different ways." I hesitated. "One of the bodies was thusly dressed. It is very cool. Or so I am told," I added hastily, as he was already opening his mouth. He closed it with an audible snap and glanced speculatively at the fire.

Night had settled as we spoke. The only light came from the fire itself. Insects chirped and the water kept playing its endless, eternal melody. I stood up and looked around, searching for a place to hammock up. Surmising what I was about, he  started to pack away the roasted pieces of my kill. They would be our meal the day after.

_Perhaps you should tell him, brother mine._

I groaned. Snowcloud's mental voice was lazy and complacent. She was full and safe and, from what I could garner, almost asleep.

_Tell him...?_

_Don't play the fool, Changer. I am not a puppy. Tell him he is Nguoi'Yeu. Perhaps he would like to know. Before somebody else would._

I took out the hammock from my pack and swung it over my shoulder. By the glow of the fire, I had noticed a suitable tree, where I could spread the hammock. Spread, it could hold two people. And it would have to.

_You don't have much time, brother mine. At the morrow or the day after we shall arrive at the Tree. What will you do, then?_

I bit my lip. My back was to the Prophet and his words, when he spoke, were so soft that I almost didn't hear them above the rippling of the water and the crackling of the fire.

"Do you think me craven?"

I blinked in surprise. For a moment, I had no idea of what he was talking about and nearly said so. Then  dawned on me. I almost turned to face him, but thought better of it.

"You are the strongest and bravest man that I have ever known." The force behind my words surprised me. Snowcloud snickered gently in my mind, but I ignored her and went to climb the tree and to tie the hammock. I had just knelt on a branch with a width twice that of my shoulders when he appeared behind me. Whatever had been his reaction to my words, if he'd had any at all, was hidden now. But the calm in his gaze held a strength that was not there before. He looked at my handiwork and frowned.

"You aren't setting it as you did yesterday."

I shook my head. "No. It will be spread wide, for it will have to hold both of us. It is too dangerous to sleep on the ground, but Water Demons don't scale trees." He regarded me with a peculiar look I couldn't decipher. In another, I would have called it bewilderment. I nodded and with great nimbleness and stealth he climbed down, disturbing nary a leaf, and extinguished the fire as I finished the task of tying the hammock."

"Snowcloud tells me we will be at the Tree tomorrow, or the day after at worst," I called to him. In the darkness, I couldn't tell where he was, and I thought even he would need the sound of my voice to guide his climb. I lay down on the robust fabric of the hammock. It cracked a bit under my weight, but held.

A few heartbeats later, I could feel another weight being added, but my Wit sensed nothing. I smiled in the darkness.

"What is the Tree? I have been meaning to ask you, but I have never found the time. You aren't very straightforward in your writing." I could feel  an undercurrent of mocking reproach in his tone. I smiled again and turned toward him.

"The Tree, or, better, the Trees, for there is more than one, are the only place where Khams won't kill or make war. They are... sacred, you might say. Since they don't know you, and you are not Khams, the only way they have to avoid fighting you by their laws is to meet you  at the Tree," I explained to him. "Then you will be safe. I don't want to spoil your surprise. I think you will like it." I avoided thinking about Snowcloud's words. I have found I have become rather good at not thinking. He made a sound very like a puppy's whine and I almost chuckled.

"I would prefer my surprise to be spoiled," he pointed out. I grinned, all too pleased to have the upper hand.

"Go to sleep, Prophet. The  sooner you sleep, the sooner the morrow will come. I'll stand the first watch." I felt his weight shift closer to mine. I could perceive his body, lithe and strong, so close to mine.

I put my hand behind my head, and kept smiling at the unseen stars above. 


	12. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Sand Dun and Impoeia, my betas! :)
> 
> And to Andromeda-Aires, who is an amazing artist and a great person in general. Go see her DA gallery, she makes awesome art! http://andromeda-aries.deviantart.com/
> 
> And thanks to D. who commented last chapter. Really, thank you!
> 
> Fitz&Fool&the RoE Universe are not mine. Everything else is u.u
> 
>  
> 
> Flint&Vanyel again. I hope their plot thickens...

**_ Interlude _ **

_The tribe is celebrating._

_Stars twinkle in the dark sky above. The Backbone of the Night, the fiery stream of light that extend extends from horizon to horizon, divides the firmament in two._

_The wide plain is swept by a warm wind. The tall grasses bend and twist, the air resonating between them as in a flute, creating haunting melodies. Birds and insects call, providing the counter tone._

_In the dark, a small patch of light shines. A long dwelling of eart and massive bones shines from the inside, a big fire roaring within. The bones support the lumps of turf as wide as a man's forearm is long. Drapes of leather and fur cover the inside of the lodge, trapping the warmt inside. A round hole has been cut into the middle of the lodge's roof, to allow the fire to flicker in the night._

_It is winter and the plains are frozen, even if though not covered with snowas the far away mountains are. The brittle grass stems crack a little, shining like the stars; as above, so below.  
The smell of rich meat is heavy in the air, and predators prowl just outside the circle of light, but dare not come inside. They have learnt to fear Man._

_Beyond the heavy hides that keep the cold out, rhythmic sounds and rippling laughter lighten the air: people talking and singing and dancing. The stars have_ _spoken: it is Midwinter. Half of the Frozen Time is behind them, and their reserves are full still._

_The people are dark of skin and hair and big muscled. Men with bushy beards and tall women pass around a birch container full of an intoxicating liquid, whilst little boys and young girls listen to hunt-tales with eager eyes. Adolescents dance around the fire in the middle of the lodge, creating eerie moving shadows across the flaps of hide, draped to divide the individual spaces of every family. Among them, one stands out like a patch of snow on black turf._

_He is not as tall as the other youths, but his movements bespoke of nimbleness and strength. His hair is the colour of straw, his skin a pale brown against their darker hue. His eyes are of the same shades of the best flint to make toll and lacks the heavy ridges of some of the biggest male. Half of his face is scarred and deformed._

_He is dancing with a dark girl, long, sleek and black hair shining in the flickering light of the bonfire. She is as tall as he is, and of heavier built, but moves with the same grace as that of the snow leopard who watches them from the shadows, lambent eyes immobile._

_Flint leaps high and laughs loudly._

_Sparks fly from the bonfire, mixing with the stars._

________________________________

_The small city sleeps._

_Some lights flicker inside the houses, round and shaped like towers, smaller rooms on top of bigger ones. Some are two or three rooms tall, others reach much higher. Massive trees stand between the constructions. The night colours everything black and white, but what little light the fires give hints at blues and greens and yellows, figures and birds and flowers on the walls.  
The icy wind blows between the cobbled streets, singing the same song as in the far-away steppes, the timeless song of the Wind. White people curl about themselves against the cold, covered in heavy blankets. No fire is strong enough to warm them in that night. There is no bonfire, no celebration of the Middle of the Winter. _

_People live, despite a city that already looks to be dead.  
A young man sleeps in a room at the very top of the tallest building. The space is circular. A spiral has been made of complex, decorated tiles in on the ground, with images of circles entwining and spirals, and a symbol like a lying eight like a figure eight, lying on its side. The room is warm, almost hot in the persistent cold of the night. There is no fire in this room, but there are light coming from the one below it and they are the source of the warmth. _

_The bed is also round, and stands in the middle of the room. It is a delicate thing, carved from wood and stone, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. There is nothing else in the room, save for a skylight, the clear glass showing the glowing stars of the Sky Wheel above._

_The youth moves a little, dislodging the white blankets, heavy with embroidery. He is naked from the waist up. His skin is the same colour as that of some stones, between blue and gray. Whirling patterns can be discerned, darker against the fairer background of his torso's skin. Twin lines rise from his belly like vines, to form spirals around his nipples and above his shoulders . He has no navel. A tear-shaped jewel rests on his heart, rising with every breath the boy takes._

_His hair is sleek and , fine and of the same colour as his skin, and his shoulders are covered in a fine down of soft plumes. He turns his head and a frown mars his brow. Then his body follows and he curls into a ball, like a cat, or a birdie or a chick inside its egg._

_Over the skylight, sparks fly, like the echoes of a far away bonfire._

_Vanyel's brow relaxes and his lips attempt a smile in his sleep._

_____________

_The grasses rise, fresh and tall in the spring morning._

_The last snow had has melted, and the newborn bison calves frolic in the happiness of first year of life. The herd watchers, the matriarchs, big and burly animals of more than ten years, stand still around their daughters and their calves._

_The males watch both, forming a wider circle around the females and the young._

_Two groups of humans watch the herd._

_They are crouched among the tall grasses, javelins in hand, leeward from the animals. In one of the two grup groups, a giant jaguar with long, thick fur stands immobile as if made of stone. Beside the feline, a young man of perhaps twenty years looks at the herd and frowns. He shakes his head and he signals to three other youngsters with him, two women and a man. Though around his age, they are more massive, with heavily built muscles and darker skin. Then the young man frowns again and throws back his straw-coloured head. His pupils dilate and he swears under his breath.  
Just then another group of men, older than the one with Flint, springs from out of cover._

_Flint stops his small band with a hand, his lips curled in a snarl of anger that makes his scarred features appear even more nightmarish. The herd scatters at first, but soon the males charge the men. The other humans' screams shifts from warlike to panicked._

_Flint leaps in silence and Whiteclaw follows. The others in his small party hesitate a moment, then follow him. Soundless, Flint targets a young female bison of perhaps two years, still heavy with her unborn calf. He hurls his javelin and the bison, hit in in the neck, falters. Two other javelins reach her._

_The herd flees, and the stampede begins far in the plain. Flint watches as the female tries to run, wavers and falls on her knees, bellowing. Whiteclaw jumps on her neck and the massive jaws of the jaguar close over the female's jugular. His Outer Sense tells of no serious injuries among the men who leapt too soon after the first big prey of the year. The only pain is the one coming from the agonized bison on the fine grasses. The fair man watches, without joining the other youths' screams of joy. Soon, the female's life ebbs away, like her blood in the grass. Flint watches the red and the green mixing and says nothing._

_He goes to take back his javelin, while the others chatter excitedly and pat each other and him on the back, heavy blows that almost make him fall. It is the first time since anyone can remember that in the First Spring Hunt the group of young ones had slayed a prey, and the older, more seasoned hunters, haven't._

_Women and men come to dress the meat and prepare it for for the night's feast. Jests and mockery accompany the second, empty-handed group. Many come to Flint to congratulate him._

_The scarred man smiles, but his smile is far-away. He scratches Whiteclaw between his round ears and speaks modestly. His humble behaviour soothes a little the injured pride of the other hunters.  
As they begin working around the kill, Flint turns his head and watches the hills, where the camp used to be two years ago, when those people, the Mammoth People, accepted him. And where another, smaller camp for only three used to be. _

_Then somebody comes closer to him and touches him on the shoulder. Flint smiles before turning, knowing who it would be even before his grey-blue eyes see her. He smiles fully at the young, dark woman and kisses her lips._

_He turns his back to the distant hills and goes to work for that night's feast._

_____________

_The road is white, and paved with cobblestones. The full moon and the stars illuminate it. The faint light of the aurora heralds the dawn yet to come._

_White people dressed in black, petite and slim, move in silence, following the small coffins up to the Hills of the Dead. The full moon illuminates the column, the torches showing the way. The scene is a painting in black and white. The people's feet make no sound. The procession is silent in its grief._

_The white children are supine upon the ashen sheets. Their innocent features features are immobile, their small hands as cold as what killed them._

_In front of them all, alone, walks a youth. His skin is a strange, faint gray-blue hue and he carries no torches nor does he shoulder a coffin, as others do. He walks, his lean face grim, his slender shoulders straightened by pure will. He is dressed in colours that echo his skin: gray and blue, with spiral patterns._

_Vanyel glances back, then around. Flowers bloom shyly around the road and he breathes a sigh of relief. The warmth is coming; others won't die._

_This year._

_He closes his eyes and a flash of pain passes over his face. Too much death. Children, mostly, and the People know its own know their future. The children in the coffins dressed themselves for this final journey, fully aware of their imminent journey._

_Sneakily, Vanyel's right hand goes under his clothes, to cover his breast, where a fur pillow rests._

_Then he lets his hand drop and marches onward, toward the burial ground._

_The sun rises over dead and living alike._


	13. Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Sand Dun and Impoeia, my betas! :)
> 
> And to Andromeda-Aires, who is an amazing artist and a great person in general. Go see her DA gallery, she makes awesome art! http://andromeda-aries.deviantart.com/
> 
> Fitz&Fool&the RoE Universe are not mine. Everything else is u.u

** Chapter Ten: Death **

 

_Every country in Clerres has a story about how it accepted the White Wisdom and became a White Land. Every country; except Behit, from whence it all began and Liantharin, which came second._

_Some are well-known stories, like the tale of the Dream of the Queen;  which tells of how Queen Kharis dreamt of a White Girl that told her that Uzkabat would be brought into Clerres or be destroyed, and how her dream came true. Thusly Ukzabat became part of the White Land._

_The fishermen of the small villages of Vietmar and in the docks of Dushanbe recount a most peculiar, almost too fanciful, tale. They says that one day, the waves rose as tall as a mountain over the land; that Water struck down on Earth so mightily that Earth itself was shattered and drifted away. Water, victorious,  flowed into the channel. So the Dushanbe's Gulf was made. The stricken Earth Earth came to be Waitan, forever divided from Land, and neither true Earth nor true Water. The Kings of old then, in their panic, quested for Wisdom and found it in the White Prophet of that age. And the Prophet spake: "Leave be the lost Earth of Waitan and turn your attentions to fertile Vietmar, 'till the changed Changer cometh to unite the two lands once more."  Impressed, the Kings pledged Vietmar as a part of Clerres and forgot about the island for a thousand years._

_Despite the fact that most Vietmaran seem to believe in it, this tale is probably an invention of the crown of Vietmar to justify their desire to conquer Waitan, rather than a true recounting of how the country became White Land._

Tales of Clerres, by Kiali - Jast Verim

 

The night passed uneventfully. Odd, how the most striking events happen when one least expects them. Still, I woke the Prophet at what I estimated was the middle of the night, and left the second watch to him. I slept fitfully. In my dreams demons and shamans chased each other inside an endless jungle. I fear I may have kicked the Prophet once or twice in my slumber, but he did not wake me. I woke just after dawn in the green light of  the jungle, covered in sweat and chilled to the bone despise the warmth of the morning.

I looked around. The daytime animals were rising in the Jungle, and the night prowlers had gone to their dens. Sunrise and sunset are always the quietest moment. The Prophet had left our makeshift bedding, and was preparing some breakfast on a campfire close to the water. He had always been an early riser. I could see that Keala had kept his word. The Prophet was attired in the usual garb of a Khams woman; the flowing, light fabric tied around the hips and over the shoulders, and he wore sandals. His back, arms and his legs below the knees were bare. His gloves were all that remained of his previous outfit. I watched him stupidly. I don't think I have ever seen his elbows before. He had also tied back his long hair, revealing the nape of his graceful neck. To me, used as I was to seeing only female Khams thusly attired, he looked in all things like a woman. I wondered if this was how Amber had been, and if this was how Jek saw him; always. Then I shook my head. It mattered not.

Snowcloud raised her muzzle toward me and barked once.

_Well awoken, sleepy brother. Keala has gone to the Tree. There have been... Tidings._

I groaned and rubbed my eyes. The Prophet followed my companion's eyes, and looked at me. A tentative smile played over his lips. I couldn't help but smile back, and his own widened.

"Breakfast is ready. The w... Keala brought this to me. I must admit it is cooler than my usual clothes." He snorted and regarded the flowing green-brown fabric. It looked good against his bronze skin. "And I must admit I prefer not to wear white. It is so easy to get dirty." I smiled even more and folded the hammock before climbing back down to Earth.

"Snowcloud says there are news," I reported, arching my eyebrows at her and I rubbing my eyes again.

_Indeed. Keala's people have searched for the shaman, but they haven't found him. They did find the demon Demon. Two of the Free People won't hunt anymore. What of the Pack isn't at the Tree is keeping the Demon at bay._

I sighed at this and sat cross-legged on the ground. The Prophet watched me questioningly, but said nothing. I waited.

_There is more, Demmet. The Demon seems to have indeed been guarding something. It doesn't move from the place it is, even thought retreat would help it fight, and it doesn't peruse us. But there is nothing where he is._

I raised my head sharply at Keala's  mind-voice. I had not noticed that Keala was listening to me and Snowcloud, but then again, his Siòng is much stronger than my Wit. I frowned. The Prophet stirred the pot of congee sweetened with currant and honey. I looked at it. I couldn't find it appetizing, as I was faintly nauseous. I felt as if my bones and stomach were made out of ice. I averted my eyes. I pressed my hands to my temples. My head felt as if it were filled with wool. Perhaps I had not slept enough, I thought.

"The Khams say that the demon is acting strangely, guarding nothing," I told the Prophet. I shook my head mutely as he offered me a cup of congee and he frowned, as if he wanted to say something, but changed his mind. I blinked and shivered. 

"Perhaps the Demon has gone rogue." I nodded at his suggestion. Sometimes Demons, more often than not the  ones that survived an attack, suddenly stopped obeying the  orders of their summoners and start acting erratically. It can be useful in battle, for a rogue Demon is as likely to attack his allies as his enemies. 

"It is possible," I agreed. I rubbed my eyes yet again. They burned.

My heart sank into a cold place in the pit of my belly. Cold sweat suddenly covered my skin.

My eyes burned.

Frantically I took stock of the rest of my symptoms. My bones ached. My eyes burned. I felt cold, even if I knew the morning to be warm. My head felt empty and light. My mouth went parched. No. It had to be an illness. The Jungle was full of them. Perhaps something I caught from the water.

_Changer?_

I eyed Snowcloud. She had cocked her head to the side, one of her low-tipped ears taller than the other, and was regarding me with clear blue eyes.

_It is nothing, sister. Just a passing sickness. We have to go. Tell Keala we will be ready soon._

"Fitz... Are you well?"

I blinked and turned. The Prophet had finished his meal and was washing the  bowl at the stream's edge. I extinguished the fire. The tentativeness in his voice surprised me and I eyed him. His face showed honest concern, marred with something that, in another, I would have called indecision.

"Yes, it is nothing. Perhaps I drank drank some bad water yesterday." Or so I fervently hoped.

He nodded, but looked unconvinced. However, I couldn't spare the time to reassure him. I am no Khams by any stretch of the imagination, but even I could see the subtle markings on the trees on the other side of the small river. Claws' marks. We were close to the  Panther People's hunting grounds. I took out my battle-axe and and hung it from my belt. The Khamrang is a fine hunting knife, but it is not a weapon meant for battle.

"I wouldn't have thought you would return to the axe." The Prophet pointed at it. I shrugged. "I started to use it again when I came to Clerres. People here fight with dainty swords, and the Iduyans prefer the spear. Neither knew anything of axes. It gave me an edge," I explained. I saw him nodding. "Don't listen to Jek," I added, starting to walk, following Keala once more. The morning jungle was plaesant to walk in. I tried to concentrate on the conversation, and on my surrounding, to forget the burning in my eyes and the ache in my bones.

He raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

"She claims I did it to accettuate that I am a barbarian. I did not."

A smile played on his lips. "Ah. So you dress in black because it looks so good on you, then?" Mockery made music in his voice.

I felt my cheeks burn. His gaze turned shrewd and he smiled at me, delighted.

"You do!"

"I don't!" I protested hotly, my aches forgotten.

Snowcloud sniffed him and ambled between us in a rough figure eight, her head always turned toward the Prophet. I was looking at them both, but she didn't growl.

_Puppies, puppies, be good,_ she reproached us mildly.

I breathed in and pretended not to notice the redness of my face and neck. With all the dignity I could muster I whispered., "We should speak of it later. We are close to the Panther's territory. They may hear us."

He sobered immediately and I felt a twinge of regret. We walked forth in silence. I could barely glimpse Keala in front of me, walking into the leafy Jungle. Soon it became hot, but our flasks were full and the Prophet seemed able to withstand the heat better than the days before. I tried not to think about how my bones ached and my eyes burned, but anxiety rippled through me. Even whilst I tried to convince myself it was nothing but a Jungle flu, I calculated how much time I had based on past experiences. Three days, perhaps four or five if I was lucky. My spirits soared. Just maybe, I could manage to get to the Tree and start the ceremonies before it struck me. Maybe. If I was lucky. I knew these signs; I'd experienced them before on three other occasions. The first had been when I'd come back from the Skill Pillar after searching for Cunning. These were the signs that heralded one of my stunted, incomplete visions; my White Time, as  part of a Dhil'a pair. I almost groaned aloud as I stumbled over a log that Snowcloud had presently jumped over gracefully, my coordination failing me.

My clumsiness saved my life.

Where I was but a second before a great cat leapt out of the Jungle, missing me by the barest breath. A black panther, sleek and silent and deadly as the night. Keala's burst of Siòng resonated in my skull like the tolling of a bell, leaving both me and the panther stunned for a frozen second. I recovered first and my hand went to the  battle-axe.

"Run!" I commanded the Prophet, knowing full well I could do no such thing. Only a fool would give shoulders to a big cat and hope to live. My voice woke the beast, but by then Snowcloud growled and leapt and I had raised my weapon. I hit the panther between neck and shoulder and Snowcloud's jaws closed on its soft underbelly. I felt the feline's shoulder give away. I could taste, as Snowcloud did, the hot blood. The black cat howled in pain, .and my mind reeled as my Wit caught the animal's agony. Another scream, human this time, came from close by. The bond-companion of the panther had felt the blow and the pain.

_They are here. Run! RUN!_

Keala's voice spurred me on. I turned to see the Prophet with a pitifully small blade in his hand. He hadn't run, I noticed, fear for him gripping my gut. Then I remembered that he couldn't hear Keala. I grabbed his arm and took off into the Jungle as fast as my legs would carry me, following the wolf blindly and dragging the Prophet along behind me.

The massive trunks closed in around us. We ran almost doubled over, my eyes searching the leafy canopy above us anxiously, for I feared an attack from the branches. We had to get away. We had to get someplace where there weren't so many trees. My feet chose the direction. I went up, leaving the stream-made ravine and heading for the mountains.

I heard a roar behind us; the call of a healthy, sound animal. Too close; they were  too close  and gaining fast. My eyes searched for a hiding place for the Prophet as I ran as fast as I could. He had no Wit, no scent. If he were to hide himself well, then they wouldn't find him.

_Duck!_

I didn't question the command. I flung my right arm, I caught the Prophet by his waist and fell to the ground, dragging him with me. For the second time in almost as many minutes, a big cat  leapt at where I had been but an instant before. Not a panther, but a smaller cloud leopard. The beast turned to roar at me. Snowcloud growled and I rolled over, almost sitting atop the Prophet to keep him down. Before either I or my bond-partner could react, the beast jumped. I barely saw it. My instinct instincts compelled me. I raised my arms to keep it at bay and tucked my knees against my chest to avoid avoid its hind paw tearing my insides to ribbons. I felt the impact of the compact, strong body with mine. Air left my lungs in a a rush. We rolled away. I pushed at it with all my might, trying to put my hand around its muzzle. Despite my struggle, the strong jaws of the cat got closer and closer to my flesh. Snowcloud growled and bit frantically into the the flank of the leopard, but our position didn't give her much leeway. With a desperate push of my elbow I managed to deflect the powerful jaws away from my neck, but felt the sharp fangs close over my left shoulder instead, near my arm. I heard the sickening crack of my collarbone breaking; I felt my left arm losing strength. I waited for the pain to find me and tried to grab all the Skill I could muster for an attack. Then the leopard froze and let out a strangled mew, not unlike a kitten. It tore its jaws from my shoulder and stumbled to my right. Disbelieving, I looked up. The Prophet stood, my battle-axe in his hand, panting, his robe marred with blood. I heard a faint echo of pain, both from the cloud leopard and from its Siòng-partner as the leopard jerked with the agony of a broken neck.

Then the pain hit me. A deeper, hotter pain radiating from my shoulder. I gasped and stilled, closing my eyes, my body going rigid against the pain.

_Get up! We must run!_

I don’t recall how I got to my feet, but I think I screamed at some point during the process. I felt dizzy with pain and spots danced across vision. My legs were warm and wet. I looked down and saw that the hind paw of the leopard had  torn long gashes on my shin. I had my good arm around the Prophet's shoulders and what I recognized as part of his ceremonial garb as a makeshift sling for my left arm. I looked at it stupidly, not knowing how it had gotten there. I tried to think. The Panther People don't hunt in  groups, like the Free People did.  Two of them against us here did not necessarily mean that the rest of the Panther People were as well. But we couldn't be sure of that. I staggered on, my consciousness  awash with too  many sensations, too many kinds of pain.

_Don't try to think. Keala is bringing us to the Dead Stones. Part of the Pack is there; they won't attempt anything. Just walk. Walk and keep walking._

So she knew as well as I did that I could not run. I walked, half carried by the Prophet and Snowcloud walked by our side. I opened my mouth to tell the Prophet what Snowcloud had told me, but only a pained sound came out. I felt him wince at my side. He carefully arranged me so that most of my weight was on him. I couldn't even thank him for that. I walked on. I would have blundered into trees had the Prophet not steered me. As it was, branches scratched my face, but it was all right because my face was numb. I groped for Snowcloud, seeking her presence. She was there, walking beside me. Through her eyes I saw and smelled myself. I was stumbling around like a blind puppy and the smell of my blood was heavy in the air. I remember looking down and noticing the trail of blood I was leaving. A bat could follow it. Silly of me not to think of it. I hadn't the strength to care. I walked on. I stumbled over a protruding root. The sudden pain nearly drove me to my knees. I would have fallen but for the Prophet's arm around my waist. I walked on.

I don't know how long we walked. Perhaps all morning, perhaps part of the afternoon as well. I don't know if we were followed. Slowly, a measure of clarity came back to me. I breathed in and out. I felt chilled, if whether by the approach of my White Time or by the loss of blood, I couldn't tell. My stomach felt like a cold stone. I tried to recall when I last ate, and remembered vaguely Chyne forcing me to eat. Two, three days before? I closed my eyes. Then I opened them and took a painstaking inventory of my surroundings.

We had been walking uphill. I recognized the trees and ferns and flowers of the top middle Jungle, but this place was unknown to me. Keala and Snowcloud walked on what I recognized as a mountain buffalo path. The tree wasn't so high as in the lowlands, and pure  sunlight filtered through the leaves, illuminating patches of undergrowth. That reminder of the warmth of the day was a jarring contrast to the coldness I was feeling. I carefully turned my head to the right. The Prophet marched dourly on, with a determined expression on his face. Beads of sweat trailed behind his ears and down his forehead and his breathing was slightly laboured. He wouldn't know where we were going. He couldn't speak with with either Keala or Snowcloud.

"We are - We are going to a place called Dead Stones. A part of the Pack is waiting there. The Panther People won't try to attack us," I explained to him. My voice sounded weak and crocked  to my own ears.

He turned his eyes toward me and nodded, sparing his breath for walking.

_Good to see you back, brother mine. We are almost there. Keep walking._

I gulped down saliva and nodded, even if she couldn't see me. We walked on. Now I could make out individual hurts from the sea of pain. The worst was the  one in my collarbone. I turned my head and looked at the sickening tent of skin and bone where my arm met my shoulder. At least, the muscles would keep the bone in place and the bone had not broken the skin, though the fangs of the leopard had cut deep into me. Blood had soaked the cloth the Prophet had used to make the sling, but despite that, it still kept my arm more or less immobile. As an added precaution, I noticed, he'd used another strip of cloth to tie my forearm to my chest . My shins were a duller pain. Probably shallow wounds, but even shallow wounds could turn deadly in the Jungle. I would have to dress them. How, I couldn't imagine.

Suddenly, I realized that the ground beneath my feet was different and had been for some time. I looked down. Between the grasses and roots there was what was unmistakably stone. Not the rough stone of the mountain. Polished stone, and cut besides. A road. We were walking on an ancient road. The Prophet noticed it as I did and glanced down, then at me. I shook my head slowly.

Then I too glanced around, and my heart turned over in my chest.

For what I had thought a less dense area of the Jungle was in fact the ruins of a city. Now that my eyes knew what to search for, I could trace the stone causeways that led up to the ruined gates where the last splinters of wood hung from the worn, rusted hinges we had passed without noticing what they were. Gates without walls, marking the beginnings of a road.

A great, circular, roofless palace crowned the hill and the marble of the courtyard and the fountains was split and stained with red and green, and the very cobblestones in the courtyard had been thrust up and apart by grasses and young trees. From the palace I could see the rows and rows of roofless houses that made up the city, looking like empty round honeycombs filled with blackness. In the square where the four roads met was a shapeless block of stone, that might once have been a sculpture. Pits and dimples marred the street corners where wells had once stood and wild figs sprouted along the sides of shattered domes.   

The Prophet stood still, looking around in bewilderment. But I had no time for it not time for confusion.The houses were built as a layering of circles, one atop the other in ever decreasing size. Now that I was concentrating on my surroundings, I noticed the pattern to the curving road that had led us from the gate to the palace; it was a spiral. The palace, the tallest building of them all, was in the center of the sprawling spiral. With a sinking feeling, I realized where we were. I had seen such architecture already, in my vision of the last true White and the first true Human. Despite my pain, my heart beat wildly as I, alone, understood what was in truth what the Khams called "Dead Stones".

We were in the ruins of a White's City.


	14. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SOOORRRYYYYY ç___ç  
> I was completely cut out from internet and I couln't post the chapter! ç__ç So sorry! Really! Terribly sorry! ç__ç
> 
> Thanks to Sand Dun and Impoeia, my betas! :)
> 
> And to Andromeda-Aires, who is an amazing artist and a great person in general. Go see her DA gallery, she makes awesome art! http://andromeda-aries.deviantart.com/
> 
> Fitz&Fool&the RoE Universe are not mine. Everything else is u.u

** Chapter Eleven: Blood **

 

 

_From Jian-Dai, White Monk, to the Venerable Prior of Behit Hong-De_

_The child seems indeed a White. He has the colourless, hair and eyes of the Prophets, and the Chief of his Village assures us that he his far older than his looks would lead us to think. The child speaks of things yet to come and has correctly foreseen two events in our presence. How this could be, I can't tell you, Venerable Prior._

_Still, it is evident there is something lacking in this child. There is none of the self-composed gravity of our previous charge. She had the bearing and ways of a true White, while this one is mischievous and prone to immature behavior. He even uses his abilities (and I hesitate in writing it down, Venerable Prior, even if I must) to play pranks. It would be absurd to expect that a simple chief of a village in the coast of Vietmar would understand it, of course, but to our eyes, who have had the honor and joy to witness a true White Prophet, the flaws of this child are sadly apparent. I do think it would be better to bring the child with us to Behit, to have a greater control over him, and I humbly suggest to contact the White Prophetess to make her aware of this little incident in the Wheel of Fate and ask her what should be our course of action._

 

Even the searing pain in my shoulder seemed forgotten as I glanced around, amazed. For a second I thought the buildings and roads must be made from memory-stone, for I could almost see the Whites bustling around the place. My eyes rested on the highest, and largest, construction. The top of it lay, crumbled beyond any repair, in chunks all around it, but it was the Nest. I gazed at where the sleeping alcove of the Prophet would have been, and found only air and the Jungle's greenery. A tall tree rose whence once the Dhil'ayr slept, shading the old nesting place.

The gasp from my companion shook him and reawakened the pain. I whimphered. The torment jolted me again, all the stronger after the brief respite. I saw spot spots dancing before my eyes. I don't know what transpired between the Prophet and Keala, but he started walking again, my good arm around his shoulders. Not for very long, I don’t think. Hazily, I could perceive us moving through the city turned forest. I could taste bile in my throat. I noticed the sky getting darker and stumbled onward. Under the shelter of some great tree I sank to my knees, my arm slipping from the Prophet's shoulders, the movement bringing new pain with it. I retched, and it was good that I had not eaten or the agony would have made me heave over the Prophet's sandals. “Please,” I said. I had not the strength to weep for mercy. “Please.” I could not think whom I was asking.

I think that the Prophet knelt beside me, but I am not sure. The fall had awoken the pain in my shredded shins and I whimpered. Snowcloud's comforting presence came closer; she whined and lapped at my face. I tried to muster the strength to reassure her, but in vain.

_Brother, brother, walk some more. There is a den close by. There you can rest. Here is not safe._

I looked into her blue eyes and tried to think, but to no use. I think tears streamed from my eyes, but I was far past caring. I closed my eyes and let my head sag. I had rarely felt such pain. I barely managed a wordless assurance that I am sure didn't reassure her at all.

"Fitz. You must walk. I think there is a safe place ahead. I would carry you, but your shoulder is broken. It would be worse. Please, Fitz." The voice was soft. He stood by me, tall and slender and strong. I blinked and tried to focus on the person who was talking to me.

"I'll try. I just... I can't..." He looked at me oddly. I blinked. "I am trying," I repeated wanly and stretched my good arm toward him in a mute request. He slung my arm over his shoulder and I attempted to stand. He lifted me to lead me onward. Ever step was torture. A wave of giddiness washed over me. The agony rocked the world around me. I fainted.

 

White people walking softly in a city made of circles and spirals. The city was elegant, nothing left to chaos. Big trees rose in even rows amongst the buildings; their species chosen with care to create two entwining spirals. The people moved without brushing against each other, feathers and hair as white as the snow and clothes as colourful as spring. They glimmered and glistened as if drenched in the Skill-River, and wavered in front of my sight as if I were peering through the waters of a disturbed pool. A youth stood out, blue-gray against the white, unmoving in a quivering landscape. There was no sound. Something burned. There was fire, but it was far away and didn't concern me. A cool hand lay on my forehead. I crashed back into myself.

 

I was floating. I was floating and the room was full of black specks. I hurt. Everywhere. I moaned and the cool hand was back on my brow. Dhil'a. My Dhil'a was with me in my time of vision. All was right. I wasn't alone. I relaxed and it was like letting go of a rope to find oneself in a bed of feathers instead of falling off a cliff. Something was held to my lips and I could feel the cup hitting my teeth. Liquid flooded my mouth. Meat broth, wonderfully salty. I drank it all. Somebody was battering at my Skill, but that ancient magic was as disjointed to me as the Wit was. I tried to hod on hold on to the taste on my tongue, but pain and vision snatched at me like the wind snatches at a dried leaf. I blanked out again.

 

A wind-swept prairie. Grasses as tall as a man. Animals like woolly elephants moving in the distance. I knew the name, though I had never heard it spoken aloud. Mammoths. Furred, armored beings with a long horn on their nose moved on the steppes. Woolly rhinoceroses. The sky above was bluer than anything I had ever seen. I felt nothing, but knew the place as cold as winter, even if the people who lived there considered it warm and summer. A number of hunters moved toward the mammoths. They blurred in my vision, like something I could almost see at the corner of my eye only to disappear at the turn of my head. One stood out, straw-haired and fair-skinned. I watched him lead the hunt like a man can watch a dream of his own, but in which he has no part. The sound of strife, the growling of a wolf and the smell of blood reached me. A jolt passed through my body.

I awoke.

 

I was lying on my back in a room. The wind was howling outside, but it couldn't reach me. The bedding was soft, but rough, as makeshift beds often are. I smelled the pungent odor of a fire, of the grasses and furs I was laid on, and of the dampness and mold so common in abandoned buildings. I heard the crackling of flames, closer than the sounds of the wind. The claws' wounds on my shins burned, but I could feel the bandages over them. My shoulder ached in the way that suggests that perfect stillness is the best course to avoid searing pain. The sling that kept my arm had been redone while I slept. All for the better, I supposed. My shins hurt, but that pain could be ignored. I tried to pry my eyes open, but to no use. After several attempts, I managed to open them a slit and to focus on the inclined roof above us. My Wit was as hazy as my sight. Things moved about, but trying to concentrate on any of them brought forth waves of nausea. I breathed slowly and rode the sickness out. I could feel Snowcloud's anxious questing. She was close, but not in the room as I. I managed to reach for her and her joy at it surprised me. With deliberate care, I opened my eyes. The world around me was blurred. I tried to blink them away. There was light, both from the campfire and from outside. I took stock of my surroundings.

The room was partially collapsed. I estimated that only one quarter of the original space was still available. I lay in the back of it, close to a heap of debris that reached to the ceiling. I blinked, looking up, and realized that the upper level of the building had collapsed on itself, due to sheer time and the merciless attack of the Jungle. I turned my head with care. A crack in the wall let in light and air. By the look of the slice of sky I could see, it had to be late afternoon. I frowned. When had I fainted? I seemed to recall dark sky above me, but it was not a definite memory. I recognized another bedding, nothing but a cloth spread over grasses, closer to the entrance, but it was empty. Around the fire there were pots and over it the necessary item to hang them over the fire stood a tripod on which to place the. A pile of firewood completed the furnishings of the room, such as they were. I looked at them blankly. This set-up spoke of the passage of more than just a few hours. Dread seeped into me. How long had I been out of my senses?

The light dimmed as a figure blocked the entrance. I tensed and the pain in my shoulder awoke with a vengeance. I couldn't hold back the moan that escaped my lips. He heard me. He stood still for a second. Then he came with sudden haste. The Prophet knelt by my bedding and looked at me with open concern in his dark gaze. He was still dressed in the clothes of a Khams' woman, the long fabric the same green-brown of some trees' bark, but the opal, my gift to him though he knew it not, dangled from his neck. My axe hung from his belt. My brain must have been still addled by pain and my time of vision, for I couldn't help but marvel about how well he fitted into the city, ruin that it may be. His cool hand touched my forehead.

"Fitz? Are you with us?" His voice was soft and as concerned as his gaze.

I nodded and tried to speak, only to discover that thirst had made my tongue stick and thick. He must have noticed, because he went to the pots and came back with a cup filled with clear, cool water and brought it to my lips. A Khams' cup, I noticed. I drank, and felt life come back to me. " **Yes. Thank you. How much time has it been?** " I asked him. Alarm passed over his features. I frowned.

" **Prophet?** " I tried again. The word felt wrong on my tongue.

He sighed. "Rest Fitz. It is the pain talking. Sleep and rest. I am here now, and I'll take care of you," he whispered to me. He combed my hair with his fingers, parting splaying them on my forehead and something in the gesture and in the words touched me more than I can say. I remembered the words. I had said the selfsame ones so far away, in a night of pure darkness. But confusion arose in me. Why wasn't he responding?

_You aren't talking as he can understand, brother mine._

Snowcloud's form appeared in the entrance. In her mouth hung some prey, the size of a rabbit. The Prophet turned to her and smiled.

"He is still delirious. But I think he is better," he told her, rising to his feet. I blinked. I wasn't delirious, was I? Why wasn't he answering me?

Snowcloud let the rabbit fall close to the fire and came over to me, smelling my neck. I tried to raise my good arm to pet her, with scarce success I fear.

_Speak as he can understand, brother mine. I don't know what the hawk in the sky or the mole under the earth tell each other. So he doesn't understand your words._

She licked my face, jumping away before I could scold her. I dried my face carefully with my good arm. I was speaking well.

" **Where are we? How long have we been here**?" I tried again. He sighed and I could see his back ripple with it, but he didn't turn nor answer.

 I turned with care toward Snowcloud, mindful of my broken shoulder. She said nothing more, merely looked at me. Her bushy tail was curled over her forepaws. As always, she was immaculately white. I know well how much pain she takes in her grooming, to appear so. Her blue eyes held no answer. I frowned and looked around again. There were still the shadows of an ancient mosaic over the wall. From the spirals and circles I surmised this had been the nest of an old pair, before the Ice came. As the Prophet busied himself with the fire, I tried to see if I could read the writing etched into the walls so long ago. All was well to distract me from the pain. If the Prophet chose not to answer, I had no way of making him, I thought peevishly.

I tried to sound the words out, the few that I could make out. Narn (tale), Atair (couple) and Elém (star) where the only ones I could decipher. My companion didn't stir. With a jolt, I understood why. I had been talking in the language of the White. And he didn't know it.

I watched his back and the fullness of the realization hit me. My mind reeled from it.

He didn't know. I had never thought he could not know. Oh, I had been aware that he was somehow ignorant of the ancient ways of the White, but I hadn't thought his ignorance went so deep. I had never dwelt on it. It had never occurred to me, somehow, that he could be wrong or mistaken or ignorant. He was the Prophet,; he had read and studied and knew all the old lore. But he had never been taught those ways. They were lost and I knew they had been lost. But I had never truly thought of it.

He had always been the knowledgeable one. I have always trusted him to know his path, and mine, as well. I may not have always admitted it, but ever since our trip up the mountain, after his first change, I had trusted him to be aware of the path we had to follow. I may not always have heeded him, as is and was my right, but I trusted his knowledge. Even more so, I needed him to have it.

But he didn't know.

I did.

I looked without seeing, my mind blank. He was my Dhil'a and knew not of it. He didn't even know what Dhil'a meant. He didn't know we were lairing in a city of his ancestors. Our ancestors. And he despised me. My heart beat wildly in my chest and my mouth was parched. My head was light and it spun. I knew what my duty was: to teach him somehow. The very idea was laughable. I didn't think I had ever taught him anything at all. I doubted he would accept to be taught. He so needed to be always in control, always in his own hands, that the humility necessary to learn may well be something he couldn't give. He had always used his secrets and his knowledge as a armor between him and the World. How could he give it up to somebody he loathed?

And how could I teach him? The idea was ridiculous. To teach him. How could I justify my expertise? My eyes still burned. I had not even truly begun my time of vision. I had told him I had one vision. This was true, but not the whole truth. I had meant to talk to him of the others I'd had, I justified to myself. I truly had. But how could I now? Would he resent me the visions I had, while he had none? Words said in spite half a World and a lifetime away rung in my skull. Only one White Prophet can reign. But he wouldn't be like her, I reassured myself. Would he?

I think I made some noise in my distress, for he turned to me with a cup of broth in his hand and knelt beside me again. I looked at his earnest, concerned face and felt shame that I could even think such such. Whatever he may think of me, he was nothing like she had been. Silently, he put the cup to my lips and I swallowed it all, greedily. I licked my lips and inhaled, forcing the words from my lips to be in the language of the Six Duchies.

"Thank you." A light shone in his eyes and his shoulders sagged in relief.

"It is nothing. How are you feeling?" he asked, softly.

"Tired. Sore. My shoulder and my shins hurt," I answered truthfully, tearing my mind away from my previous musings. I said nothing about the fire still in my eyes. "How long have we been here?"

"Two days. It is the afternoon of the second day. I had to carry you here. It is the ruin of some ancient civilization, but it serves us well for now, till you are fit to travel," he explained. I nodded slowly. Two days. I tried to align my thoughts. Chyne and Gombochab must have returned to the White Inn. They had most probably tried to contact me with the Skill while I was unconscious. I hadn't the strength to contact them now. I would as soon as I was able, I decided. We had to get to the Tree, but I couldn't travel through the Jungle in my current state.

"I thought you could Skill-heal yourself, at least a little, once you regained consciousness." I blinked and looked at him. He was perched close to me, hugging his legs to his chest, his cheek  leaning on one knee. I slowly shook my head.

"No. I don't have that ability anymore. I... gave it away," replied honestly. He frowned. My eyes fell on fell to the opal on his chest. I should have been more careful, but in my defense, I wasn't completely myself still. He followed my gaze and his eyebrows furrowed. He took the tear-shaped opal in the palm of one hand and lifted it slowly. He looked at it and at me, and I had to avert my gaze. Realization dawned in his eyes.

"This," he said, gesturing at the opal, " to me some thirteen years ago from an anonymous source. It is from you, isn't it?"

I couldn't lie to him. I nodded, and felt again as I was judged, though once more I would be unable to name my crime if I tried. "I... thought you would like it," I felt the need to say. And it was the symbol, among the ancient White, of the one who could see how to change the future. But this, I didn't say. I wouldn't have known how to say it.

He breathed out. "I did. I do." Silence. "Thank you." I nodded, uncomfortable and would have moved if my shoulder would have allowed me. Alas, I had no such respite.

"What does it have to do with your Skill?" he added, levelly. I almost groaned. I had seen bloodhounds on a scent with less determination. There was no way to hide from him, so I didn't try. I was far too weak for lies and deceits. Far too worn out to even try.

"There is some memory-stone in the frame. I... put a shield there. To keep you from harm.," I explained. He looked like he paled, but in the dimming light, I couldn't be sure. Snowcloud watched the two of us with a silent attention that I found unsettling. I gulped and licked my lips. My eyes still burned, and I felt light-headed and weak from pain and lack of food. My mouth felt parched. "And the ability to Skill-heal. I... wanted for it to protect you." As I couldn't. I lowered my eyes, feeling ashamed and not knowing why. It was probably only my weakened state, I thought.

I don't know what expression passed over his face, but he breathed out. "Take it back." I looked at him, surprised. He had taken the necklace from his neck, and it was dangling in front of me. I blinked at him. "The Skill you put in there. Take it back."

I would have shaken my head had I been able to. "No. It protects you, " I insisted. "I am training Skill-Users, Prophet. You may need it." Something flickered in his face as he heard how I called him. But what name had I left for him but that?

He glared at me, then frowned. "Will it work only for me? Or can anybody use it?" he queried.

"For everyone who dons the opal," I answered him. He nodded and hovered over me. "Can you lift your neck?" Understanding his meaning, managed to do so, gritting my teeth against the pain. With great care, he put it on me. It felt strange and I almost let it slip that it wasn't for me to wear such a symbol, but I bit bit my tongue and remained silent.  

As soon as the opal touched me, I could feel the Skill at work on my body, slowly sapping my energy to heal me. I had been careful in carving the memory-stone, as I know well enough that healing with the Skill can very well be worse than the wound itself. "I don't have many reserves," I said quietly.

He snorted. "You are all bones. You should eat more." He gazed at the opal, speculatively. "I'll take it back in an hour or so, and you can eat," he decided, giving me a look that meant we would talk about my gift again as soon as I was better. I almost groaned.

_He met the Khams, you know?_

I almost jumped at Snowcloud's words and gritted my teeth to keep back a moan. I glanced at her. She was lying down, her muzzle on her paws. She inclined a low tipped ear toward me.

_One of them I didn't know tried to attack us. I took care of his companion, and the Scentless One took care of him._

I felt my eyes growing huge. _You don't mean..._

She barked once and wagged her tail. _I do. That Khams has one leg less now. He stood in the entrance of the den and told Lym to translate for him, that all who wanted to try to harm you had to come forward, but would have to kill him first._ She cocked her head to her side. _Keala said you truly are one People, for him to protect you so._

I bit my lip and glanced at the Prophet, who was putting the last of the javelina to stew. I doubted he had liked any of it. But I had no doubt that I owed him my life.

I felt my eyes burn. Something heavy prickled in the back of myself. He stopped his preparations and I could envision the frown that marred his forehead. We both felt it. The Wheels were turning. I wondered dimly where they would bring us. Then the darkness of pure exhaustion claimed me again.


	15. Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Katie and Impoeia, my betas! :) Yes I have a new one!^__^
> 
> And to Andromeda-Aires, who is an amazing artist and a great person in general. Go see her DA gallery, she makes awesome art! http://andromeda-aries.deviantart.com/
> 
> Big, big thanks to Noam, who took time to leave a comment. <3 Thanks. Truly.
> 
> Last chapter about F&F in Black! Next chapter Vanyel and Flint :D
> 
> Fitz&Fool&the RoE Universe are not mine. Everything else is u.u

** Chapter Twelve: Future **

 

 

_Fisil and Silvarin are the Twin Cities of Waitan. Both are young, born in the last five years, and both locations have been chosen by the treaty with the Khams, their confines carefully penned. The cities therefore are of the same age and the same parents, but they are as different as two siblings can be._

_Fisil, mirror of Dushanbe, clings to the rocky cliffs like limpets and barnacles cling to a ship. Its fields are rice fields, orderly and utilitarian. The city is literally cut from the rock, and the rock it is made from is the one cut out of the cliffs. Great ships sail thence, and as in Dushanbe, people from all over the World can be seen there. The people who have taken up residence here are merchants and sailors and fishermen, hardly folks used to harsh lives. Many prosperous merchants and tradesmen once situated in Liantharin have made their home there, bringing their business and their knowledge with them. The fine goods they make flow from Fisil into Clerres and beyond; not lastly the precious amber of the amber mines, both simple and carved. The Fisil's Castle is called the Amber Castle, and it is set on the tallest cliff, seen from every point in the city. It is a stronghold as much as it is a residence for the Kings._

_Silvarin is set in a warm valley, carved by several small rivers, none navigable but all founts of good water to replenish the empty barrels of ships. Only one rocky cliff shields it from the worst of the ocean's storms. The rivers carve a wide plain that nestles between gently rising and rolling foothills. The dock is not deep enough to give shelter to the big ships that make the voyage from far-away land, but it is lively enough. The fields of Silvarin house orchards and cattle. The people who have settled there are farmers and, since the Sack of Lhansa the Great Trainer have put their residency there, scholars and erudite people. It is said that Silvarin has one of the best libraries of Clerres, second only to the White Chronicles of Behit. The castle of Silvarin is called the Garden, and it is set in the very middle of the busy city, nestled down the slope of the cliff. In spite of its name, it is a fortified fortress, able to withstand many kinds of attack._

_Between the two cities lies the Khams' territory, and the White Road that joins them. Nobody is to go into the Jungle without approval from the Aspyrgends, the Khams' ambassadors._

 

 

Sleep brought me no respite. The Skill Amulet sapped what little strength I had to heal the break in my shoulder. My dreams were fistful, with shreds of visions and hints of futures, but I had not the strength to follow them. They pounded at my head, more pressure than pain, unrelenting. The sense I had to do something was as strong as any Skill command I had ever witnessed, but I knew not what I must do. I think the Prophet fed me some more broth some time in the night, but of that, too, I have no clear recollection.

I woke when the first day birds started to herald dawn, before the sun had broken over the chain of mountains around us. My head hurt and my mouth felt chewy dry. My eyes burned. They would soon be a shade lighter. Yet, the pain in my shoulder had abated slightly and for that, at least, I was grateful. I raised my good arm and carefully prodded the break. The pain was fainter, but even that little movement left me exhausted and panting for breath. I almost cursed out loud. Being too drained to walk would do me no better than a broken shoulder. I quested toward Snowcloud and found her sleeping mind close to the breach in the wall that worked as a door. I turned my head with care toward it.

The Prophet slept curled in a ball this side of the entrance. He slept like a cat, lax, but with that aura of constant wariness. His head was pillowed on his outstretched arm and the fire glazed him with light, adding to his dark hues shades of the old golden. The sight of him asleep, his dark head resting on his outstretched arms, his fine, sleek hair shadowing his face, awoke memories of so many times I had seen him in such a position. I bit my lip and closed my eyes. I remember waking up in the Mountain and seeing my friend for the first time in a year. Then, like now, he slept on a pallet near a fire, guarding me whilst I begun healing from my injuries. I opened my eyes again. Surely, he wouldn't do this for somebody he loathed?

His eyes opened slowly, as if I had spoken to him. For a time he stared back at me without a word. Then he sprung to his feet and added more firewood to the fire. From a pot close to the hearth he took a cupful of broth and came to me, kneeling to give me the food. In all this he had been as silent as the night air, every movement a dance. I drank greedily. Then I breathed out and searched with care for words he could understand.

"Thank you." I almost winced. My voice sounded too strong, too harsh in the soft morning. He nodded.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Better. The shoulder pains me less. But any more Skill-healing will leave me too weak to travel, Prophet.," I told him. He glanced at the Skill Amulet and frowned. I slowly shook my head. "I think I may be ready for something more substantial than broth.," I added. My stomach rumbled its agreement and with some surprise I noticed I was hungry, as I so seldom was. He nodded again and rose to fetch food. I debated with myself the wisdom of trying to sit up, and decided for it, though I needed help from the Prophet to accomplish the feat. I did succeed however to feed myself the soup of meat and vegetables. As I ate, he did the same. I watched him, sitting cross-legged so near to me. He was unusually quiet, and kept his head downcast, looking at his bowl of soup. I frowned, wondering if the previous day's meeting with the Khams had not been too harsh for him.

"Snowcloud told me you met the Khams yesterday." He raised his head, as if surprised, and nodded. I held his gaze. "You saved my life. Thank you."

He averted his eyes and shrugged his slim shoulders. "I can't say I was surprised by their behaviour, after what you told me. But I don't understand them. The one who tried to come inside would have killed you. I thought you would be of their People, as you are bonded to a wolf. Well, a wolf-dog. And I had understood that they don't attack their own People." I sipped some soup as he spoke. Dread washed over me as he spoke. This, too, was dangerous territory to tread. Dimly, I wondered if life had been so to him; a dance between what could be told and what he wanted to say, fearing that every step may lead him into a trap? I shook my head. He was looking at me quizzically, his head cocked to one side, so much like Snowcloud that I almost smiled. I cleared my throat, debating swiftly over how to answer.

"The Khams' ways are... strange for outsiders. You are right, they would never have attacked me had I been of the Free People. But I am not."

He frowned. "Because Snowcloud is partly a dog? I have heard that in the last years a people bonded to domestic animals have emerged. It would make sense you are one of them." I bit my lip and said nothing. His gaze pierced me like a spear. "Are you?"

I groaned. Again, the analogy of a bloodhound sprang to my mind. And I was the prey he was after. . I felt like someone who had just been maneuvered into making a fatal move in a game of Stones. Or like a wolf, brought to bay at last. I shifted my eyes, looking at the heap of boulders and rocks to my left. I gripped the bowl as much as my weakened state allowed. But I did not answer.

"Fitz?" Had he always been this unrelenting, I wondered.

I exhaled and spoke, quietly. "No. I am not one of the Human People. I am..." I sighed. "You could say I am one of your People, if there is such a thing." I heard him gasp and turned my gaze to his. He looked stricken. I couldn't fathom why. "I don't feel like other humans do in the Wit, Prophet. There is no way for me to hide it from the Khams. They tell me I feel... Far away. Distant. And other people don't feel the same to me as they did before." The blood left his face and he looked ashen. His eyes looked huge. Yet I went on. I don't know why, save that he had wanted to hear it, and as such I perversely felt he had to know it all. "I am not as human as I used to be. I can't be People of another man." I regretted the truth as soon as it escaped my lips, for he closed his eyes and made a soft, choking, pained sound. For a moment he stood as still as a statue carved from walnut wood and draped in green cloth, his hand clutching his bony knees, the empty bowl between his crossed legs. A stillness that was not repose. Then he sprang up and in one fluid movement snatched away both his bowl and mine. He turned his back to me, walking to the fire. His back was tensed and so were his slender shoulders. I bit my lip. He had wanted the truth, but it had been a cruel thing to do, to give it to him.

_You woke as early as the birds, brother mine. Are you already squabbling with the Scentless One?_

Snowcloud's etched themselves inside my mind. _It is you who woke late, sister. The deer will all run away before you can catch them_., I retorted. My companion's head appeared in the entrance and looked at me from beyond the fire, over the Prophet's shoulder.

_Not likely, brother mine._ Then, her voice sobered. _Changer... you are going to go again._

I sighed heavily and closed my eyes, rubbing at them with my good hand. _Yes. I can't change it, Snowcloud._

_I know. I don't like you being away, where I can't go with you._

I glanced at her, sending a wordless assurance and love. She barked softly and sent the same back to me. Then, as the Prophet raised his head to look at her, she jumped out of view. For, wolf-like, she had put the worry out of her mind and was going hunting. It was not a desertion. She knew I wasn't in danger and she had no way of helping me save providing me with the nourishment I would need. I smiled, in spite of myself.

From what little light streamed inside the collapsed building, I judged dawn had come. I let myself rest with my back against one of the boulders, once a part of the ceiling if the part of the spiral I saw gave any indication, and wondered if I had enough strength to Skill reliably to Chyne or Vien. They took me out of my quandary  when they Skilled to me first. I felt the familiar feeling, the probe of Chyne to gauge if I was awake and well enough to answer. I gave a voiceless answer to both, but left it to Chyne to open the channel.

I have been told that Skilling with my father was like being trampled by a horse. Skilling with Chyne when she is worried or afraid is no different. She thundered into my mind so strongly that I gasped, pain like a lightening passing from temple to temple. I roughly shoved her back with all the strength I could muster. I massaged my forehead with my hand, eyes closed, to ease the pain. When she came back, I could feel her chagrin and Vien's more soothing presence.

_I am sorry, Father. I tried to Skill to you yesterday, but I couldn’t reach you. How are you?_

I debated whether I should lie to her, but decided against it. _I had a close encounter with the Panther People._ I could feel both their astonishment. I hurried on. _I'll be well, but this has delayed us a couple of days. I am too tired to keep talking for long. Have you spoken with Suen Bright Jade?_

It was Vien who answered me. _Yes. She seemed surprised that the shaman would be here, or that he would attack us at all. She said that her family has attempted to find a suitable shaman to craft charms for them for some time, without success. Apparently, this one had been one was suggested as appropriate by a clerk in Kuan's court. I gather he is one of her father's business contacts, but she doesn't know him personally. She knows nothing about this shaman current whereabouts. We have… reasons to believe she is sincere._ I carefully avoided thinking about how, precisely, they have gather such surety _. My Liege, I would suggest caution in moving..._

_I'll be well, Vien. Stay in the White Inn and keep a careful watch on her._

They both reassured me that the retinues were enjoying the respite. Nothing much was happening. Gao was taking care of Chien, and Gombochab was, to use my daughter's word, "sulking". I smiled at the news, just as a wave of dizziness overcame me. I felt Vien use some of his strength to support the link. I breathed in. I didn't have much time.

_Chyne, you must go back to Fisil. I need you to talk to Suen Baojia about the shaman and to Skill to me as soon as you know something. Vien, be my eyes in the retinues and Skill to Bitter Moon. She needs to alert our spies inside Liantharin. Also, it is better that Chundra is made aware of this._ Knowing my wife, that was preferable to her finding out at a later date . _Skill to me as soon as you know something more._

They assented. With a last thought, we broke the channel.

I crashed back into myself. I gasped as I was aware again of the lingering pain in my shoulder and the pounding pressure in my skull. My eyes burnt almost like they were on fire. With dread, I knew my time of vision was almost upon me. It must have snuck up on me while I Skilled with Vien and Chyne, and it was too late to try to postpone it. It was now. I panicked. Not now, not with the Prophet here, not in a dangerous territory with a Demon still about. But my raging and raving at Fate brought no answer and no respite. It would happen and it would happen now.

The World faded in and out of focus as I tried to resist the wave of the Futures, much like a kelp tries to resist the waves of the ocean, and with as much success. For a moment, I was back in the Mountain Kingdom. I was walking on the Skill Road, toward Verity, with all my pack with me. Then I was in the collapsed White building, staring unseeing at the campfire. Why the Mountain Kingdom, I wondered? Was I trying to anchor myself in the past against the future?

I think I whined, if the sound I heard came from me. I could feel a presence close by. I gasped. I opened my eyes and saw two dark ones gazing worriedly at me. An ungloved hand came to rest on my forehead. I gazed back, marveling at the depth of feeling I could see in them. How could the people of Clerres think of their Prophets as being without emotions? I could see him frowning. His hand was still on my brow.

In my disorientation, my mind wandered back to the time on the Mountain, when I went to search for my last king. I almost shook my head, but refrained, fearful of shaking away his hand. It was important. Dimly, I understood I was falling into the time of my vision. My sight was hazy whilst my blood and my bond with my Dhil'a urged me to go beyond, to see and feel what no man should see or feel. He wouldn't. Couldn't. Again, I thought of the far-away travel on the Skill Road, and and of the stone dragons. I thought of a gully full of memory stone, of a King who had given up all he had to save his Kingdom. Sacrifice. Was this the key? No, not the Skill, nor Verity. I had the key, once more, but where was the lock?

I looked into the Prophet's eyes and another image came to me. Dark brown turned into glistening black. Auburn hair became sleek black tinged with white. In the place of the Prophet, I saw a woman. A woman I had once know known, who was and was not dead.

Kettle. Kestrel. Gull.

I smiled at her. Him. He didn't smile back at me. His features were those of the Prophet, but the black eyes that answered mine had not seen the light of the World in more than forty years. A shadow of the past in my vision time, I wondered. There was a pleading in his clear eyes. Her eyes. Loss and loneliness. Thirty-two years, I thought to myself. A long time to be blind. An impossible time to be bereft of a part of yourself. I tried to reach him, to make him feel what I felt. I tried to touch him with stunted prescience, but I could not. The Blood of the White is not the Skill, nor the Wit. It doesn't build a sharing link among two people, not even between Dhil'ayr. I tried once more, but a sharp pain made me gasp. Agony passed through my arm, from my wrist to my shoulder. The torn, jagged ends of what had been our Skill-Bond ripped me. I recoiled. Yet it was not only the pain of a shattered Skill-Bond hurting me that prevented me from reaching to him. He was sure, so sure he had lost his sight, that he had closed off the part of him that could foresee. I needed an edge, an opening in him to drag him out, to show him he hadn't. To drag him past his fears, his certainties and his self-reproaches. Eda knows I was the cause of not a few of them. With a jolt, I knew what I had to do. Once, we'd had such a window into each other, in shreds now. I turned my left wrist up, then I hesitated. I knew what was in front of me. Pain. I had once tried to take away an arrow from my back and I hadn't been able to for the agony of it. If I did what I had to do, that long ago torment would be nothing. I looked up again.

Go slowly, be careful, I cautioned myself, and then, No, I thought. Now. Now is the only time in which to do this. He wouldn't hate me anymore, if he had his sight again, would he? He had said so. I gritted my teeth and went to take the wrist of his Skill-hand. He watched me in confusion, but didn't try to stop me. Better so.

_Brother! What are you doing?_

I ignored Snowcloud's frantic cry. "I put his hand on my wrist, where silver fingertips had rested once before on my skin. His fingertips.

Agony seared through me. The torn edges of what had united us ripped into my soul like a thousand razors. I think I screamed. The Skill can be used to give pain better than anything else. This I had known ever since I witnessed Regal torturing Burl, so long ago. Now I knew the searing, mindless torture of it. Fire and cold edged into me, the pleasure of the Skill seeping inside, twining with the endless pain I was inflicting on myself. My mind reeled from both. It was too much,; too much pain and too much bliss for any man to bear. I cried and screamed and laughed like a lunatic. I was, perhaps, mad. But I held on to him, more out of reflex than for any conscious decision on my part. I was past understanding that letting him go would ease the torment, or I would have done so. I was past understanding anything at all.

Snowcloud howled. I could dimly feel her presence. It steadied me when I needed it, as she always had. The most honest part of myself. I reached out toward the Prophet, blindly, as a man blinded by blood in his eyes. Pieces of myself lay scattered, ripped from me like meat torn from a carcass by a butcher's knife.

I lost myself. I knew nothing, not even my name, yet I burnt. Not only my eyes, but my whole being burnt, in Skill-pleasure and Skill-agony together. Inside the pain, beyond the pleasure of the Skill, I, if there was indeed an I still, felt elated. This, here and now, I had to do.

But I didn't find him. He found me and I could feel his panic and fright. He found me and attempted to break away, trashing clumsily and madly like a bird in a net, but I didn't allow him to escape. I gasped and pulled him with me, crashing into the time of vision. For a moment it was like watching a nestling first try of its wings. I felt him stumble, falter, and at last fly beyond where I could follow, soaring into heights unknown to me or any man. For a fleeting instant I felt him, and knew him, complete and magical. He was gleaming gold and joy and a flight of jeweled dragons across a pure blue sky and he was friendship and he was love. I was glad in my final moment that this beauty was the last thing I would know. Then, I fell into darkness, the last shreds of what had been FitzChivalry Farseer seeping away like rain into a drought-stricken earth. Pain and awareness faded away.

It felt like dying.


	16. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Katie and Impoeia, my betas! :) Yes I have a new one!^__^
> 
> And to Andromeda-Aires, who is an amazing artist and a great person in general. Go see her DA gallery, she makes awesome art! http://andromeda-aries.deviantart.com/  
> She is such a darling! <3
> 
> Big, big thanks to Noam, who took time to leave a comment. <3 Thanks. Truly.
> 
> Last chapter of Black! Next week Blue shall begin :D
> 
> Fitz&Fool&the RoE Universe are not mine. Everything else is u.u

**_ Interlude _ **

 

_The Summer Camp is bustling with life._

_The day is bright and shining. The sky above is as endless as the prairie, nothing but grasses and the occasional creek lazily flowing among them up to the horizon. Some trees, willows and birches, full in their summer regalia, reach with their branches and leaves to the water. Not a cloud mares the endless perfection of the unblemished blue sky._

_The prairie seems flat, but it is not. Several hollows, impossible to notice, lay scatter among it, residual of a more turbulent past. Inside one of them there is the Summer Camp, made of dark leather tents._

_Inside the camp, there is life. Dark, big boned children move on and about, laughing and playing. The smallest ones just playing at pretending hunt or house, the bigger ones helping the adults in their activities. Some squat close wither the stone-knappers are working with obsidian and flint. Some, fetched while they passed by, helps the leather-workers at the long, tedious job of softening hides. A couple of children sings to give time to two people crushing seeds to make a rough flour, amidst much laughing. Others help curing the meat the hunter brought, making it ready for the harsh winter ahead and even more so for the festivity of that night. Several dogs, almost feral beast still more like wolves than dog, scuttle about, as likely to be harshly chased away as to be given a morsel of food, as likely to run when somebody approaches as they are to wag their tail at him._

_The square tents' flaps are open, showing the inside. Sleeping furs and tools. Children and dogs dart in and out of them, fetching and searching in their own family tent as needed, for tools, toy or food._

_Only in one tent no child and no dog goes inside._

_It is a big tent. The leather is strong yet fine, making it supple and light. The inside is orderly and precise. The stone tools are of top quality. The wooden bowls and woven basket are among the best in the camp. The pickets that hold it up are straight and smooth, a true sign of luxury in a land so devoid of high trees. But no child enters it with proprietary, confident steps, and there is only a sleeping fur. A big one, for a pair. But only one, nonetheless._

_A woman is sitting barefoot in front of the tent, weaving a basket. She is dark of skin as the other of the tribe, with long, luscious black hair. She must be not even in the second half of her third decade of life. Her strong hands are capable and precise as she works, but the expression of her handsome face has something of sour in the pitch of her lips, in the tightness around her eyes. When other women look at her, they often tout and whisper among themselves. The ones who have babies or infants still in their carrying-cases clutch them tightly. The woman doesn't seem to notice it, but her black eyes go to the center of the camp, the Place of Meeting, where all the ceremonies are carried on, and where young people are working on that day ceremony. The Mammoth Summer Ceremony is the place to make treaties or break them. To make a marriage promise. Or break it._

_One child runs screaming happily down in the hollow, and people stand up and rush to meet the hunters. The first to appear, the First Hunter, is of fairer skin and hair than the other of the camp, and lighter boned beside. His face is hideously scarred, red welts rising from the flesh, but he is greeted as a hero and screams of joy rise when the wealth of meat the hunting party brings is uncovered. Three megaloceros for the night feast._

_But the woman in front of the orderly, childless tent doesn't stir._

 

________________

 

_The young man stands in the road, his stance rigid._

_The road stretches in front of him. It is long, and sinuous. It goes all the way to the far away mountain. It is a long, long travel, the one in front of him._

_Behind him there is a city. The building are roughly conic, round rooms of diminishing side one on top of the other. In the morning light, they glisten and shimmer, mosaics and lacquers of all colours making abstract, winding patterns. Spirals and intertwining wheels in all the shades of the rainbows. All is new and gleaming. The sun above is hot, shining on the hills and beyond them, on the coast. Summer is at its peak, the grasses tall and the trees in full bloom._

_Yet the people watching in silence at the young man on the road are dressed with relatively heavy clothes. Long sleeves and leg pants of colourfull flowing fabrics. Not a few of them have hats on. The clothes and building are in all hues, but the people's mien is white. White hair, skin and colourless eyes fixed on the youth on the road._

_Like them, he is petite and slender and slight an impression of agility and resilience in the elegant line of his long-limbed body. Unlike them, his hair is the grey-blue of some stone, and his skin is almost of the same shade. Two twin lines sneaks from behind his clothes and up his hairline, like vines, and not unlike the symbols on the buildings._

_Vanyel turns and watches his people. The city is big but not many are left to populate it. And the children among them are precious few, as are the elder. His grayblue eyes sweep over the Nests. So few of them. So few. He hadn't told them to come. They had know that this was the Time, and that he has to leave them. So they came to part ways._

_One of the white people, male or female, parts from the rest, handing him a full backpack. With a curt nod, Vanyel takes it and turns his back to the city that had been his home for six years and starts walking toward the prairies. He will need more than a year to reach it. And then who know how long to find him._

_But for every step he makes, leaving the slowly dying city behind him, a bounce came back in his bearing and a smile slowly creep in his lips. It will be a long voyage. But his Dhil'a awaits at the other end of it._

_Vanyel walks, his breathing in time with his steps, keeping the sun at his left, toward Flint._

 

____________

 

_The prairie is the colour of burnt Siena, brown and yellow at once, like the sunset sky above. A symphony of earth hues and the foresight of the darkest shades of night dominate the landscape._

_The tribe has moved back to the winter camp, the permanent dwelling not yet completely cured by the harsh ravage made to it by the unoccupied summer-time. People move on and about, making the last preparation for the evening meal. Sounds are subdued, and so are faces. Pinched and gray. Even the children and the dogs seem to feel it, and scuttle about without noises._

_Inside the lodge of earth and bones, the hearts are blazing with fire, for the night are cold now that the winter is approaching and to provide whatever light is possible to have. Smoke rises and disperse up above, among the cluttering of useful wooden and flint tools and of spare furs, clouding the air but slightly with the smell of burnt wood. The scent of winter._

_In the central heart, at the very core of the lodge, an old man, his dark hair streaked with silver and his once proud muscles deflated by the years, watches with tight lips a row of sleeping fur. Eleven people, four children and seven adults, sleep fitfully. Their faces over the furs show angry welts and boils, and their limbs tremble slightly, constantly. A dark haired woman sits by the smallest of children, an infant, barely able to tot around, would he be able to walk at all. She is beautiful, with black sleek hair and strong built. The child has the same blue-black hair, now matted by sweat. The woman tries to pry the small lips, ravaged by ulcers, to feed him broth with a horn spoon. The old man shakes his head slowly and rises his eyes over the mammoth sketched with red ochre on the furs._

_A man enters the hearth, but the shaman doesn't flinch. Many passes by the central heart, to go to their own, but their eyes don't linger on the sick. This one though crouches by the old man, and a hand, fairer than the dark ones of the tribe, enters in man's sight. The hand is holding a bunch of rough grasses with smallish, yellow six-petals flowers. The shaman snatches them away and hurls them in a leather cauldron boiling over the fire. The woman raises her black eyes and looks at Flint with deep gratitude. Flint looks back, with sadness in his grey eyes and almost raises on his feet, as to go to her._

_Another man, dark of skin and big of bones, casts a shadow in the central heart. He hurries to the dark, beautiful woman. He sits close to her and caress his child, their child, hair, whispering soothing sounds to both baby and woman._

_Flint watches in silence as the pair coos over the infant. When the shaman starts distributing the life-giving concoction, he sneaks away, leaving the woman who is not anymore his and the man to take care of their child._

 

___________

 

_The den is sturdy and well-made._

_A small hollow in the prairie had been covered with a grate of wooden poles, and over them clod of earth had been carefully arranged, leaving a hole for the smoke to go out. From the outside, it would be hard to notice it, even close by. You could walk over it, and not know it is there._

_The first winter's sprinkle of snow has already frozen the landscape, ice making every blade of grass brittle and gleaming. In the sky above the night had won his endless fight with the day for the sky, and the last purple rays are disappearing beyond the horizons. The prairies looks empty of people, and only rarely a grazers or a predators make their voices heard from far away._

_Inside the den it reminds of nothing as much as a nest. Soft grasses had been carefully woven in a shell of sturdier wooden sticks to make a strange bedding, inside which furs and woven cloth both make a comfortable place to sleep, exactly in the center of the hollow. The fire is set and burning gaily. Smoked meat and preserved vegetables are in several baskets hung from the ceiling. A carpet made of interlaced grasses of different colours lay on the ground. More food is in frozen caches in what was another small hollow, not far away. Everything is ready for the winter._

_Vanyel looks around, with a satisfied air in his eyes. He smiles. He had left behind his woven clothes, favoring furs and leathers. His grey-blue hair disappear under a wolverine hood._

_With a curt nod, he scrambles up and, uncaring of the cold that gnaw at him, make his way toward the winter lodge of the mammoth people, his feet soundless, a dark figurine against the vaster dark of the night._

_His breath comes in faster as he watches the lodge. It is not the first time. He kneels in the grasses, peeking out and waiting. He awaits for something. Perhaps, tonight will be the night. He put his fur cloak closer around his slender shoulders and stands still._

_The stars move slowly over him. Almost he rises, to accept another night defeat, when a slender and big shadow moves toward the lodge. Again, Vanyel stills, his eyes following the achingly familiar movements of the great jaguar. And so he waits._

_As he thought, another figure, smaller and fairer, walks out of the lodge, toward the jaguar. Heart in his mouth, Vanyel creeps closer. When he is close enough to see them in the almost complete darkness, Flint is kneeling by Whiteclaw, stroking his fur and whispering. As Vanyel drinks in the dear lines of his Dhil'a's body, Flint's hand rises to rub his eyes. Vanyel smiles and raises on his feet, making himself seen._

_For a moment, both the Human and the White freeze, looking at each other. Vanyel bites his lips and wait, his stance increasingly rigid, uncertain creeping in his heart. Then Flint helplessly spreads wide his arms. At the gesture that said what the Human has no words for, an answering look lit Vaniel's face. The White flings himself toward the still crouching form of Flint. In one step, the young man catches him and enfolds him in his arms, while Whiteclaw purrs, slowly, in the background, they hug, fiercely, under the winter's night sky._

_The stars bear silent witness of the reunion._


End file.
